


and there's a storm you're starting now

by dorothymcshane



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drama, Eating Disorders, F/M, Light BDSM, so much drama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-07
Updated: 2016-03-17
Packaged: 2018-03-16 18:25:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 31,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3498347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dorothymcshane/pseuds/dorothymcshane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Doctor’s an author infamous for his sources of inspiration, and Clara absolutely and definitely didn’t mean to end up sleeping with him, but two can play the same game, can’t they?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

”I’m sorry,” Clara giggles, tangling her hands into the Doctor’s hair and pulling him closer towards her until she can feel his breaths on her lips. “I’m a terrible person, I know.”

   “You are,” the Doctor agrees.

   “So are you going to kiss me or not?”

   He fumbles with the clasp of her bra. “Do you think that would be a good idea?”

   Clara laughs. “No.”

   In the next moment, their lips collide, and they find their way to Clara’s bedroom with clumsy, drunken steps, Clara accidentally toppling over the lamp in her living room, which causes her to start giggling again, but then the Doctor sucks on a particularly sensitive spot on her neck, and her giggles turn into ragged breaths and low moans, echoing in the silence of the flat.

 

 

“Fuck,” is the first word Clara utters the next morning, when she wakes up with the Doctor’s legs pressed against hers. He’s still asleep among the sheets, his grey locks tousled, his chest slowly sinking and rising.

   And, okay, Clara might have a tendency to have sex with people she really shouldn’t have sex with and a questionable taste for older men, but how on earth did she ever end up in bed together with _the Doctor_?

   Too many gin and tonics, the throbbing in her head reminds her, and as if on cue, she has to get up from the bed and run to the bathroom to throw up. She doesn’t quite make it to the toilet.

   Fuck, indeed.

   The Doctor is infamous in literary circles, even Clara, whose first novel only just got published, knows that. It’s not that his books aren’t good – they’re brilliant – but how he gets his inspiration for them. He sleeps around, listens to the stories people tell him, break their hearts, and then write about it.

   Clara’s published by the same publisher as him, and was invited to the release party for his new novel. She’s read every single one of his novels, so she never hesitated before attending it. When he started talking to her, she was half flattered, half amused, and wholly and fully wary of his intentions.

   But goddamnit, he’s charismatic, and the alcohol sure as hell didn’t have a positive impact on Clara’s already clouded judgment.

   She mops up her vomit, grimacing at the stench, and then swallows two aspirins and brushes her teeth. When she returns to her bedroom, the Doctor’s awake, sitting on the edge of Clara’s bed, buttoning his shirt from the night before.

   “Leaving so soon?” Clara finds herself saying, a crooked smile playing on her lips.

   He shrugs. “I figured you wouldn’t want me to stick around any longer than necessary.”

   Clara leans against the frame of the door to the room. “I suppose you’re right.”

   “Or I could stay and have breakfast with you.”

   “Coffee,” Clara says.

   “Huh?”

   “I haven’t had time to do any grocery shopping this week, so I only have coffee, but yeah, stay, if you want to.”

   And that’s how they end up drinking coffee in Clara’s tiny kitchen, Clara still in her underwear, the Doctor looking much less intimidating than the night before, with dishevelled clothes and shadows beneath his eyes.

   He’s still gorgeous, though. Unfortunately.

   “I’ve read your book, you know,” the Doctor says, taking a sip from his coffee. “I don’t think I mentioned that to you yesterday.”

   Clara finds herself blushing, as she always does when someone mentions her novel. “So what did you think about it?”

   “I’m curious about how much of it is based on reality.”

   “That’s not an answer to my question, is it?”

   “Still,” he says.

   “You hated it, didn’t you?”

   He laughs. “No, I liked it. It wasn’t as melodramatic as most romance novels seem to be. It felt real, you know? Especially the ending. And, well, the sex scenes were great.”

   Clara hides her face behind her coffee cup. “High praise indeed.”

   “You don’t believe in love, do you?” he asks her.

   She raises an eyebrow. “What makes you say that?”

   “I think that’s what I liked the most about the novel,” he says. “The cynicism you described the characters’ relationship with, even when _they_ were madly in love with each other. Somehow I knew from the start that it was never going to work out between them.”

   “I suppose you’re right,” Clara admits.

   “Why not?” he asks her.

   She focuses her gaze on him. “Do _you_ believe in love?”

   “Well, I’m fifty-six and unmarried.”

   “Not an answer to my question.”

   “And you didn’t answer any of my questions, so, there you go.”

   “There are a lot of rumours about you,” Clara says.

   A corner of his mouth curves upwards. “I’ve been told so. Do you believe them?”

   “Well, you slept with me, didn’t you?”

   “True,” he admits. “What’s _your_ excuse for sleeping with me?”

   “Too much alcohol.”

   “And yet, you wanted me to stay and have coffee with you.”

   Clara grimaces. “Apparently.”

   “So, have you read any of my books?” he asks her.

   “No,” Clara lies, because the last thing she wants is to appear like she’s the pathetic admirer she is. He can’t have had time to notice any of his books in her bookshelves last night, anyway.

   “What, not a single one?” He honestly sounds disappointed. Bless him.

   “Nope.”

   “I’ll give you a copy of my latest novel if you promise me you’ll read it and tell me what you think about it.”

   Clara tilts her head. “That would mean we’d have to meet each other again, wouldn’t it?”

   “Feel free to decline my offer,” he says, a smile playing on his lips.

   “I’ll think about it,” she says.

   He reaches for a pen that’s lying on the table and scribbles down a series of numbers on a piece of paper. “I’d better get going, but call me, if you want to.”

   “We’ll see,” Clara tells him as nonchalantly as she can, and then he kisses her cheeks and leaves the kitchen, and Clara takes a deep, trembling breath and tells herself to be responsible and throw away the piece of paper.

   She doesn’t.


	2. Chapter 2

“I _told_ you not to sleep with him,” Amy says before she pays the barista for her coffee and takes a swig from her cup. It’s Monday afternoon and Clara’s having coffee with her before her last lesson of the day. She works as an English teacher to support herself financially, since her writing unfortunately doesn’t even come close to paying her bills.

   Clara hides her face behind her own coffee cup. “I know, I know. It’s not my fault that he’s charming, is it?”

   Amy rolls her eyes at Clara, but her tone is amused. “Darling, that’s the worst excuse I’ve ever heard. _I’ve_ never had sex with him – and god knows there was a time when I found him really fucking attractive.”

   “Anyway, it’s not like we’re going to get married,” Clara says, sitting down at a table next to one of the windows in the coffee shop. “It was just a one-night stand.”

   “I’m not judging you. I’m just saying that you should have known better.”

   “Isn’t that the same thing?”

   “Yeah, well, you should have. I can’t have him breaking any more of my authors’ hearts. We’re already publishing four books about heartbreak during the upcoming year thanks to him, and, like, four other authors have missed all of their deadlines because they’re too miserable to write.”

   “Liar.”

   A smile tugs at the corners of Amy’s mouth. “Okay, okay, so maybe I’m exaggerating a bit, but seriously, you shouldn’t get involved with him.”

   Amy is Clara’s editor and has somehow become her best friend, as well. Clara loves her, but sometimes she can be tiresomely … right. She always seems to think that she knows best, and the worst part is that she usually does.

   “Tell me about him,” Clara says, leaning her elbows against the surface of the table. “You must know him pretty well by now.”

   “Clara, I’m serious.”

   “You’ve known him for, what, seven years?”

   “Eight.”

   “He can’t be _that_ terrible.”

   “Look at yourself,” Amy says, gesturing towards Clara. “This is you after you’ve met him once. Think about the poor people who actually fall in love with him.”

   “I’m curious, that’s all,” Clara says. “I’m not going to let him – or anyone – break my heart, you know that.”

   Amy regards her quietly for a few seconds before she sighs. “I know everything and nothing about him. He only tells me what he wants me to know, which isn’t much, but I’ve picked up on a lot of things during the time that we’ve known each other. I think … I think the reason behind why he takes his inspiration from other people’s lives is that he’s afraid to write about his own. I’ve tried encouraging him to give it a chance, but telling him what to do … not a good idea. I might not know exactly what happened to him, but I’ve learned that it’s best not to bring up his past. I don’t think he’s a bad person, but sometimes bad stuff happens to good people, you know? And I sure as hell know that what happened to him fucked him up pretty bad.”

   “Has he always been … this way?” Clara asks her, slowly sipping her coffee.

   “As long as I’ve known him, yeah. Or, well, his mood varies a lot. Some days he charms everyone around him just because he can, other days he doesn’t willingly talk to anyone.”

   Clara raises an eyebrow.

   “If the situation would have been different, I’d have fired him a long time ago, but he’s our best-selling author, and I really do love his books, you know. He’s never disappointed me with his writing, so far, and he always meets his deadlines, so then the rest doesn’t really matter, to be honest, no matter how frustrating he might be, sometimes. That’s why I put up with his behaviour. Someone like you, who don’t have anything to gain from it, shouldn’t.”

   “Well, he was good in bed,” Clara says with a grimace that turns into a smile when she sees Amy’s expression. “I think. I can’t really remember any details.”

   “Two months and you’ll be crying while binge-watching sad movies and eating ice cream at my house, if you actually decide to pursue this. Tops.”

   “Want to bet?”

   “Don’t do anything stupid, honey.”

   “I won’t.”

 

 

So, that evening Clara calls him, her motives unclear and her fascination larger than she would like to admit. She’s not naïve enough to think that it’s possible to fix broken people just like that or that a relationship between her and the Doctor could ever work out, but hooking up with him a couple of more times won’t hurt anyone, will it?

   “I believe you promised me a copy of your latest novel,” Clara greets him. “Signed, I presume.”

   “Miss Clara Oswald,” the Doctor says, his voice husky in her ear.

   “The one and only.”

   “I didn’t think you’d call.”

   “Me neither, but I couldn’t resist your offer, could I?”

   The Doctor laughs. “Admit it, you don’t care about the novel, you just want to see me.”

   A smile tugs at the corners of Clara’s mouth, but she refuses to let it affect the tone in her voice. “Why on earth would you think that?”

   “Because I only left you my number so that I could see you again.”

   “Did you, now?”

   “Do you want to come over?”

   Clara considers this for a moment before she gives him an answer. “Let’s have dinner on Friday.”

   “I don’t usually do dinners.”

   “And I’m telling you that if you want to see me again, it will have to be on my terms.”

   “Bossy, are you?” he says, and she can hear the smile playing on his lips. It’s excruciating, really, but she can’t let him know how much he turns her on, not if she’s going to keep her control over the situation.

   “Do you like it?”

   “I might,” he says, definitely teasing her, and fuck, she hates him, she hates what he does to her, and she hates herself most of all for letting him.


	3. Chapter 3

They end up meeting at a restaurant that the Doctor chooses, and the minute Clara steps inside it, she _knows_ he chose it to impress her. It looks ridiculously expensive, furnished in white and gold, with round tables covered in white table cloths, set with silver plates and wine glasses. Glittering chandeliers hang from the ceiling and the view from the panoramic windows is nothing short of breathtaking.

   “Fuck you,” Clara tells the Doctor when a waiter has showed her to the table where he’s sitting. “When I told you to choose a restaurant, I meant, like, a café where we could have gotten sandwiches or something, or, I don’t know, Chinese food would have been nice? This isn’t a restaurant. This is a place where rich people go to spend money when they can’t think of anything else to spend it on.”

   The Doctor just grins at her. He’s stupidly handsome in the light from the candles on the table, dressed in a purple shirt and with perfectly styled messy hair. Clara refuses to let it affect her. “And I told you, I don’t do dinners, so if I actually agree to have dinner with you, I think I should at least get to choose what I eat.”

   “Why don’t you?” Clara asks him. “’Do dinners’?”

   “Food,” he says with a grimace. “Not really my thing.”

   Another waiter turns up at their table with two menus, and Clara’s thankful for the distraction. The menus are white with cursive gold text, and everything’s in fucking French. Clara took six years of the language back at school, so she understands enough of it to be able to at least guess what most of the meals consist of, but the absurdity of it still makes her laugh.

   On the other side of the table, the Doctor raises an eyebrow.

   “Sorry,” Clara says. “This _is_ nice, I’m just … I mean, I’m an English teacher. I spend my days in classrooms and hallways full of dirty lockers, I don’t … this is not what I do, you know?”

   “I could have guessed,” the Doctor says, a crooked smile playing on his lips again.

   “Guessed what?”

   “That you’re a teacher.”

   Clara rolls her eyes at him. “What are you implying?”

   “Well, I’m not saying that you’re a control freak, but you’re kind of a control freak.”

   “I am not a control freak.”

   The grin on the Doctor’s lips grows wider. “Yeah?”

   “I’m not!”

   “You’re already upset because you didn’t get to choose the restaurant.”

   Clara crosses her arms over her chest. “That’s because I could have chosen a restaurant that I actually could afford.”

   “I’m paying.”

   “Oh, I’m assuming that you are, since you’re the one who dragged me here. I just don’t like it.”

   “So, not a control freak, then?” the Doctor says, swiftly changing the subject.

   “Nope.”                               

   “Then you won’t have a problem with me ordering for you, will you?”

   Clara doesn’t know whether she wants to kill him or fuck him senseless so that he’ll stop looking so goddamn smug. Both, probably.

   “No problem at all, no,” she finally says, handing him her menu, but she knows he must be able to see the fear in her eyes. Because, well, he’s right, of course he’s right, even though Clara will never, ever admit it to him, or anyone.

   “Hum,” the Doctor mumbles, his gaze focused on the menu, “what do you think about crocodile meat? Or bird nest soup. Or … live baby octopus.”

   “You’re fucking with me.”

   “Delicacies, in certain parts of the world.”

   “You’ve travelled a lot, then?” Clara asks him, leaning her elbows against the table and resting her chin in her hands.

   “Yeah,” he says, still looking at the menu. “I’m starting to agree with you about that we shouldn’t have gone to this restaurant, by the way. It’s no good for weird foods.”

   “Ha, ha,” Clara says, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

   “Are you ready to order?” a waiter asks them, and Clara casts a glance at the Doctor, who nods.

   “Two quinoa salads with smoked salmon and avocado,” the Doctor says, to Clara’s immense relief. “I think we’ll make do without starters, yeah?” Clara nods. “And a bottle of the Louis Jadot Pinot Noir from Bonnes Mares, please.”

   “So,” Clara says when they’ve been left alone at the table again, “did you bring the book?”

   “I have it in my car,” the Doctor says.

   “What does it feel like, knowing everyone loves your books?” Clara asks him, genuinely interested. Not that the reviews of her novel have been negative, but, well, she’s gotten a fair lot of complaints about the ending, and people seem to love accusing her of being bitter after getting her own heart broken and wanting revenge on some guy. Also, her novel’s only sold about a two thousand copies, and it’s sure as hell not been made into a movie, as several of his books have been.

   The Doctor shakes his head. “It doesn’t … I mean, objectively I know that a lot of people like them, right? But the positive reactions never stick with me. The criticism, on the other hand, makes me lie awake at night and consider never writing a single word again.”

   “So what makes you? Continue to write?”

   “God, I don’t know. No matter how determined I am about stopping, I always find myself sitting in front of my computer with some work in progress the next day again. I suppose I’m addicted.”

   A corner of Clara’s mouth twitches. “There are worse things you could be addicted to.”

   “Yeah,” he says, his gaze focused on her in a scarily intense way.

 

 

The food is good. Really, _really_ good. The Doctor barely touches his food, though. Instead he pokes in it, moves around the pieces of food on his plate and drinks too many glasses of wine. Clara doesn’t mention it to him, as she can feel how uncomfortable he is with the situation and doesn’t want to make anything worse, but it’s hardly possible not to notice it.

   When the Doctor’s paid for their meal and they’ve left the restaurant, he relaxes noticeably. “So, how did you get here?” he asks her in the lift on their way down.

   “The tube,” Clara says, regarding him from the corners of her eyes. “Listen, are you okay?”

   “I’m always okay,” he says with a grimace. “I’ll drive you home, yeah? Or you could come with me to my flat, if you want to.”

   “Do _you_ want me to?” Clara says, the tone in her voice purposefully suggestive.

   The Doctor lets a hand slide across the small of her back. “I’m dying to get you out of that dress, to be honest.”

   In the next moment, the lift reaches the ground floor and the doors open. Clara instinctively shies away from the Doctor’s touch, but thankfully, there’s no one there.

   “Down, boy,” she tells the Doctor, tugging at the edges of the dress.

   The smirk that spreads across his face could probably be classified as illegal. “And you’re not thinking about fucking me right now?”

   “Definitely not,” Clara says, but her attempt to sound like she means it is ruined by how her breath hitches when the Doctor closes the distance between the two of them again and strokes a finger across the faded shadows of love bites that cover Clara’s neck.

   “Is that so?” he whispers, his breaths tickling Clara’s skin.

   “We should go,” she tells him, absentmindedly circling his hip bones with her thumbs. “Anyone could see us here.”

   “So, you’re coming with me, then?”

   “Well,” Clara says, smoothing the wrinkles on his shirt, “what can I say, I’m curious about where you live.”


	4. Chapter 4

The Doctor’s flat is amazing. It’s situated in an old, white stone building next to a park and takes up the entire top floor of the house. The windows in the flat are huge, the pieces of furniture look like they should belong in a museum, the walls are covered in art and there are books everywhere.

   “Can I move in?” Clara asks him, only half joking, because god knows it’s nicer than her place.

   “I’ll think about it,” the Doctor says, his tone teasing, while he runs his hands through Clara’s hair. He’s standing right behind her, so close that Clara can’t seem to remember how to breathe properly.

   “Now,” she says, turning around so that she can look him in the eyes, “what did you say about wanting to get me out of this dress?”

   His mouth twitches. “Don’t you want a house tour?”

   “Oh, shut up.”

   “Make me,” he says, and _fuck him_ and his stupid Scottish accent and his stupid hair and his stupid purple shirt and his stupid face and the stupid, stupid grin on his lips.

   Clara tells herself that she only does it to wipe away the grin, and maybe that’s true, and maybe it isn’t, but either way she reaches up on her tiptoes to press her lips against his. The kiss is rough and desperate and exactly what she needs.

   Breathlessly, she laces her fingers around his wrists. “Let me be the boss.”

   “As in …”

   “Yes.”

   The Doctor draws a sharp breath, but he doesn’t turn his gaze away from her.

   “I’ll stop if you want me to,” she says. “I don’t actually want to hurt you.”

   “Lasagne,” the Doctor says, the look in his eyes absent-minded.

   Clara raises an eyebrow. “We just ate. I’m not exactly hungry.”

   “No, I meant, we need a safe word,” he says, and a corner of Clara’s mouth curves upwards. “I was thinking … lasagne.”

   “You’ve done this before, then?” Clara asks him.

   He closes his eyes. “I’m usually the one in control.”

   Clara almost laughs, because of course he is, but she’s not oblivious to how scared he looks, so instead, she raises a hand to softly touch one of his cheeks. “Lasagne. I’ll make sure to remember that. So, do you have a bedroom, somewhere?”

   “Possibly.”

   He does have a bedroom, with a bed covered in impeccably white sheets and windows with a view over the park. Clara pushes him down onto the bed and climbs on top of him, grabbing his wrists again and pinning them to the bed over his head while she covers his neck in kisses, swirling her tongue over it, from his ears down to his collar bones and up again. He doesn’t make a noise, just watches her with wide eyes.

   “You can’t touch me,” she tells him, letting go of his wrists to unbutton his shirt. “And you most certainly can’t touch yourself.”

   She slides her hands across the pale skin on his chest and then takes one of his nipples into her mouth and sucks on it. She can feel him shiver beneath her, his erection growing harder against her thighs. It’s hypnotising, having him in her power.

   “Clara,” he moans when she traces his stomach with her tongue, down towards his trousers.

   “Hush,” she tells him, leaving a bite mark close to his belly button. “I don’t want you to say anything from now on, understood?”

   He swallows and then nods.

   Clara unzips his trousers and lets her tongue slide over his length a couple of times before she presses her lips against the tip of it. He gasps when she takes him into her mouth, gently scraping her teeth against his skin.

   It’s wonderful, really, how perplexed he looks by the whole situation, how he keeps his hands above his head as if Clara were still holding them. _He_ ’s wonderful, bones and skin and blue veins and helpless whimpers. He looks so fragile, there and then, so … human.

   Clara lets go of him when she notices his breaths growing faster, the muscles in his arms tightening as he clenches his fists. She strokes her tongue across the underside of his cock one last time and then raises her head and watches him struggle with recomposing himself. The gaze in his eyes is pleading, silently begging her to let him come, but she’s nothing but insistent.

   She doesn’t know how much time passes. It could be seconds, it could be minutes, it could be entire lifetimes, but finally, she closes the distance between them again and cups his face with her hands. She kisses him tenderly, and then he raises his hands to tangle them into her hair, and she slaps him. Not hard enough for it to leave a mark on his face, but hard enough for him to wince.

   “I told you,” she says, apologising to him with her eyes, because she’s not strong enough not to. “No touching me.”

   He opens his mouth and then closes it again and nods, placing his hands back on the bed. Clara pulls her dress over her head and struggles out of her underwear, shivering at how vulnerable it makes her feel, even though he’s already naked _and_ has already seen her without clothes on.

   She distracts her thoughts by placing herself over his length and sinks onto him painfully slowly, rolling her hips against his. His eyes are closed, his lips slightly parted, and he fills her out perfectly. She tentatively raises and lowers herself on him a couple of times to savour the sensation before she increases her rhythm.

   “God, I hate you,” she whispers between her shallow, staccato breaths, tightening herself around him and moving a hand down between her legs.

   After that she can only manage unintelligible sounds and curse words. He comes first, arching into her, his eyelids fluttering, his hands fumbling for the sheets beneath him for something to grab onto. Clara rubs her clit until it sends her spiralling over the edge, as well, and then collapses onto him, her entire body shuddering.

   “You’re impossible,” the Doctor mumbles, eternities later, holding her close to his chest.

  “I know,” Clara tells him, stroking a fingertip across his cheek. “I’m sorry.”

   “I know,” he echoes her words. They lie there in silence for a long time, listening to each other’s heartbeats, before he opens his mouth again. “It’s strange, sex, isn’t it?”

   A laugh escapes Clara’s lips. “Yeah.”                                                            

   “In a good way,” he mumbles, holding her closer, “but strange.”

   They fall asleep like that, a tangled mess of limbs, the city glittering outside of the windows, and it’s completely different from last time, it’s different from anything Clara’s ever experienced, but she can’t help but think that maybe, possibly, she could get used to it.


	5. Chapter 5

The Doctor is gone from the bed when Clara wakes up the next morning, the sheets cold. She supposes she never expected anything else. And she definitely didn’t want to wake up with his arms still around her.

   Definitely not.

   She rolls out of the bed and grabs her clothes from the floor. She can feel her cheeks blush while she gets dressed, because now that her mind isn’t as clouded as yesterday, she can’t really fathom how she and the Doctor ended up in the situation they did. They did, though, and hell, she’s rarely enjoyed sex as much. She doesn’t know what that means, she doesn’t know what any of it means, but it scares her fucking senseless.

   She tells herself that she should take advantage of that the Doctor is nowhere to be seen in the bedroom or in the hallways of the flat and sneak out, send him a “thanks for the book”-message when she gets home and then delete his number from her phone, but instead she finds herself calling out his name, and he tells her good morning from behind another door. When she enters the room, she finds him hunched over in front of a computer, typing away almost furiously.

   “Working on a new novel already?” she asks him, ignoring the weird thing her heart does.

   He closes the document and spins around in his chair so that he faces her. “No. Not a novel. Just … something.”

   “Nothing to do with me, I hope,” Clara finds herself saying. She’s not upset. Of course she isn’t. She’s not stupid, she never actually thought that she meant more to him than anybody else.

   “Nope,” the Doctor says, too fast, his gaze drifting around the room. “Would you like breakfast? Coffee? Something?”

   “I’m fine,” Clara says. “I was just going to tell you that I’m leaving, now. I suppose we’ll see each other around, yeah?”

   The Doctor’s eyes finally fall upon her. “Did I do something wrong?”

   _You made me feel things_.

   “No.”

   “Are you sure? Because last night I thought we were getting along fine, and now you’re all …”

   Clara laughs, but the sound is devoid of humour. “ _I’m_ the one giving mixed signals?”

   “Clara, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

   “I’m sorry,” she says, avoiding his gaze, “but I can’t do this.”

   And then she turns around and leaves his flat, the sound of her heels echoing in the empty stairway. When she reaches the closest tube station, something inside her breaks, and before she even knows it, there are fucking tears falling down her face.

   _I’m okay_ , she tells herself. _I’m okay I’m okay I’m okay_.

 

 

He doesn’t call her. Not that she expects him to. Or spends a ridiculous amount of time staring at the screen of her phone. Or calls her friends regularly to check that the phone isn’t broken.

   He doesn’t call her, and soon, she accepts that he won’t. It’s for the best, anyway.

   So, she goes on a couple of dates with other people, suffers through an awkward dinner with a maths teacher at another school called Danny and goes to a concert with a shop-assistant called Rose. She sleeps with a significantly older man whom she meets at a baby shower a friend of hers is holding. Well, “sleeps with”. That would probably indicate that they both participate actively in the act, but mostly, she just lets him fuck her until she gets bored of it all and pretends to come so that he’ll stop. She never even asks him about his name.

   During the Easter holidays, Clara locks herself up in her flat and re-reads all of the Doctor’s books. It’s a terrible idea. First of all because most of them are sad, with people dying and people getting their hearts broken and people fucking up everything in their lives. Second of all because it makes her miss him. And third of all because she knows that he’s probably never even thought of her since she left him, whereas she’s … not obsessed, no, but … unable to let go of the memory of him.

   When she’s finished his eleventh novel and opens the cover of his latest one, the one he gave her a copy of, she finds a quote scribbled on the title page. His handwriting’s terrible, crooked and very nearly unreadable, but as a teacher, she’s used to deciphering the most awful handwritings.

   “The deep and lovely dark. We’d never see the stars without it.”

 

 

The next Saturday, she’s invited to an event that her publisher is arranging, a press breakfast at which several authors are presenting their new books. She knows that most of the other invited guests are journalists and book bloggers, and she doesn’t usually attend similar events, but to be honest, she doesn’t have anything better to do with her day.

   And the fact that the Doctor is one of the authors who are going to be talking about their new books doesn’t have anything to do with it. Obviously.

   When she gets to the offices of her publisher, he’s all everybody’s talking about. Apparently, it’s just been announced that the film rights for Death in Heaven, his newest novel, have been sold for a, well, frankly fucking insane amount of money. Nobody seems to care about the other authors, and Clara can’t help but feel sorry for them, because she knows what it’s like, being invited to talk at events where nobody actually cares about your novel or anything you’ve got to say.

   In the room where the event is held, she takes a seat as far away from the authors as possible and sips on a glass of orange juice while she takes in the sight of the Doctor, pretending not to look. His grey locks are just a little too long, he doesn’t seem to have shaved in several days and he’s wearing a black jumper with holes in it. He doesn’t exactly look like a multi-millionaire.

   Then he looks up from the papers he’s shuffling with and his eyes meet Clara’s across the room. Clara quickly forces herself to break their eye contact and look down at the sandwich on her plate, but it doesn’t take long before she’s looking at him again, and he’s still looking at her.

   And.

   Fuck.

   Why is his gaze so _intense_?

   “It’s good, isn’t it?” the woman sitting next to Clara interrupts her thoughts by saying, motioning towards Death in Heaven where it’s lying on the table.

   “Haven’t read it,” Clara says, to put an end to the conversation, and when she turns her gaze back towards the Doctor, he’s laughing at something one of the other authors has said, and he doesn’t look at Clara again, not during the entire breakfast.


	6. Chapter 6

“Clara!” Amy exclaims when she recognises Clara in the crowd after the press breakfast, just when Clara is about to leave. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

   “And I didn’t see you anywhere before,” Clara says.

   “No, I just arrived,” Amy says, taking a sip from the takeaway coffee cup she’s holding in a hand. “They didn’t need me for this event and there were no catastrophes that needed immediate handling, so I figured I might as well sleep in. It’s been a hectic week. Well, a hectic month, to be honest. We should get a drink, next weekend. I’m dying to catch up with you.”

   “I’d love to.”

   “How’s the work with your second novel going, by the way? I know you don’t have a deadline, but like I said, I’m still expecting a first draft before the summer.”

   Clara grimaces. “Still on the second chapter, and the first chapter is terrible. I have no idea of how I ever managed to write an entire book, not to mention edit it.”

   “Hush,” Amy says, placing a fingertip on Clara’s lips. “You know you can do it. And if you’re absolutely certain that you can’t write _this_ book, write something else. Try out different genres. Take fucking inspirational walks. Get yourself a muse. Nothing’s forbidden, except for giving up.”

   “A muse?” Clara echoes with a laugh. And then she closes her mouth, because, well, there _is_ someone.

   “As long as you keep writing,” Amy says, a smile playing on her lips. “I’ll call you, yeah?”

   “Yeah,” Clara says, her thoughts already somewhere else. As soon as Amy’s disappeared back into the crowd, she turns around, walking away from the doors and towards the queue leading up to the authors where they’re signing the books that the guests have gotten in their goodie bags, ignoring the voice in the back of her head that tells her that this is an idea destined to end in disaster.

   When Clara reaches the other authors, she realises that she’s forgotten her goodie bag somewhere and doesn’t even have anything for them to sign. The Doctor’s chatting to somebody about the character development of the main character in his newest novel, but when he hears Clara stutter her apologies to the other authors in between awkward smiles, his gaze flicks away from the person he’s talking to.

   “Clara,” he says, rolling the r in her name, his voice hoarse. The woman in front of him fumbles with his book in her hands.

   “Doctor.”

   “What are you doing here?”

   “What do you think?”

   His eyelids flutter.

   “Don’t let me distract you,” Clara says, nodding towards the woman in front of him.

   “Right,” he says, turning his gaze away from Clara again. “Sorry.”

   Clara waits patiently while he talks to two more persons before she’s standing in front of him, doing her best to formulate some kind of sentence. “Listen, about last time …”

   “Don’t worry about it,” the Doctor says, his eyes fixed on the copy of his novel that’s on display on the table. “I understand. I’m not exactly boyfriend material, am I?” He makes an attempt at a smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

   “And I’m not interested in being your girlfriend,” Clara says. Maybe it’s a lie, maybe it isn’t, but either way, she _won’t_ be, so she won’t let him know what she’s thinking. She can’t, if this is going to work out.

   “But you’re here,” the Doctor says.

   “Yes.”

   “Did you read the book?”

   “I did.”

   “What did you think about it?”

   “Let’s have coffee and I’ll tell you.”

   “Bribing me, are you?”

   “Well, you can always choose to say no,” Clara says.

   “No, I can’t,” the Doctor says, his eyes locked onto Clara’s in a way that makes her shiver. “Wait for me, yeah? I’ll finish signing, and then I’m all yours.”

   He _must_ be aware of the underlying implication of his words and the effect he has on Clara regardless of how much she tries to hide it, there’s no other way to explain any of it. Well, of course he knows. He’s the master of this game, or whatever the hell it is, after all.

   “I will,” Clara finally says, and something flickers in the Doctor’s expression, but she has no way of telling what he’s thinking, so, she just nods at him and then leaves all of the authors behind, waiting for her heart to stop beating so damn fast.

 

 

Half an hour later, Clara’s the only guest left and bored out of her mind, contemplating whether to just flee and send the Doctor an “I’m sorry but I think this is for the best after all”-message, but then she thinks about the past weeks, and, no. She can’t spend any more time being miserable. If that means dating the Doctor with the intention of beating him at his own game by writing about him, then so be it. And this time, she’s going to make sure of that she’s not the one who’s going to end up with a broken heart.

   “Clara.”

   The Doctor’s voice tears her from her thoughts and she rises from the sofa she’s sitting on. “Took you long enough.”

   He makes a vague gesture with a hand. “You know how it is. So, where are we going?”

   “Honestly doesn’t matter to me. Wherever’s fine. Well, some place that sells coffee, presumably. There’s that coffee shop at the end of the street?”

   The Doctor dips his head in a slight nod. “Sounds good.”

   “So, I guess you’re happy about the film rights thing?” Clara asks him in the lift on their way down from the offices, trying to distract herself from how close to her he’s standing and how it’s affecting her breathing.

   “I guess so.”

   “You don’t sound too thrilled.”

   “No, I am, I am. It’s just been a strange week. I was flown over to Los Angeles and … yeah, everything’s been pretty surreal. I haven’t been able to sleep in several days.”

   “I wasn’t going to say anything, but you look like a zombie.”

   He grimaces. “I feel like one.”

   “Maybe you should go home and get some rest,” Clara says when the lift has reached the ground floor. “We can always have coffee some other day.”

   The Doctor doesn’t say anything until they’re standing outside of the building, and even then, he won’t meet Clara’s gaze. “You know when you asked me about what it feels like, that everyone loves my books?”

   “Yeah.”

   “I’ve realised that I don’t care,” he says. “It doesn’t matter. But I do care about what you think about them.”

   “You really _are_ quite tired, aren’t you?” Clara says, because, well, the alternative would be to either blame it on that he’s simply trying to get under her skin – in a metaphorical _and_ literal kind of way – or to believe him. Which … no. She’s not going there.

   “You’re probably right,” the Doctor mumbles. “I should get some sleep. I’ll call you, yeah?”

   “Do,” Clara says, reaching up on her tiptoes to kiss him on his cheeks.

   When she takes a couple of steps back from him again, his face has broken into a smile, and the image lingers on her mind during the entire tube ride back to her flat.


	7. Chapter 7

The next day passes by without the Doctor calling Clara, but she barely notices it. She spends the day in front of her computer, writing four thousand words about the first meeting between a woman who’s just graduated from art school and an older man who works as an artist and is known for sleeping with the women he paints. The characters end up drinking too much wine and fucking in a toilet at one of his exhibitions and after Clara’s finished the chapter her cheeks are burning, but she knows it’s the best thing she’s written in several months.

   Then, Monday comes around, and Clara has to turn her focus to teaching her students about the literary devices used by Jane Austen in Pride and Prejudice.

   Ten minutes before the lunch break of the day is over, her phone rings. She’s chewing on a sandwich, discussing the fête that the school is arranging in a couple of weeks with one of her colleagues, and her heart nearly jumps out of her chest when she sees the name on the display of her phone.

   For a moment, she considers ignoring his call, but instead she sighs, excuses herself and gets up from the table. “So, did you sleep well?” she greets him while she walks towards the corridors of the school, her heels clattering against the floor of the cafeteria.

   “Not particularly, but I’ve drunk a lot of coffee, so I’m all right.”

   “You shouldn’t call me in the middle of the day, you know,” Clara says, ignoring Coal Hill School’s well-known disruptive influence Courtney Woods, who’s asking for Clara’s opinion about some ridiculous disagreement she’s having with another teacher. “Some people actually have workplaces to go to.”

   “I can call you again later, if this is a bad time ...”

   “Just tell me what you want.”

   “I want you on your hands and knees with your arse covered in bruises,” the Doctor says, his tone almost painfully nonchalant, “begging me to let you come.”

   Clara glances around the hallway, but none of the students seem to have overheard anything, thank god. “Well, this certainly took an unexpected turn.”

   “Does it sound like something you’d be interested in?”

   She contemplates his offer for a few seconds. “Possibly. When can I come over?”

   “This evening?”

   “I’ll be there at seven.”

   “And ... I also want you to tell me what you thought about the book,” the Doctor says, and Clara can’t help but smile, because, well, he might be determined to make her beg, but he’s still the one begging _her_ for her opinions, for her attention, for her time. And that’s the way she’s intending to keep it.

   “Lunch break’s over, I’ve got to go,” Clara says, her lips curved upwards. “Let’s talk tonight, yeah?”

   She hangs up before he’s had the time to give her a reply, and when she reaches her classroom, she sinks down onto the chair behind her desk, takes several deep breaths, and does her very best to ignore the throbbing between her legs.

 

 

The rest of the day is a blur, but somehow, Clara gets through it. She buys sushi on her way home, too exhausted to feel like cooking, but she mostly ends up nibbling on the food. At six o’clock she’s pacing around her flat, staring blankly at the walls, and decides that enough is enough. She changes into her best underwear, in white lace with matching garters, pulls her dress back over her head, and then leaves the flat, keys and her Oyster card in a hand.

   It feels like an eternity has passed since she spent the night at the Doctor’s flat, but she still remembers the entry code to the house. She grimaces at the sight of herself in the mirror in the lift. Her pupils are already blown, the gaze in her eyes distant.

   She really, truly doesn’t expect the door to his flat to be opened by a tiny, blonde woman, but while she’s staring at her, she silently tells herself that she shouldn’t have been surprised.

   “Tell him I came by, okay?” she stutters, and then turns around and hurries down the stairs, trying to force herself not to run, because god knows she doesn’t need a sprained ankle on top of all of this.

   She’s a metre away from the door when he catches up with her, placing a hand on her shoulder. She’s so deep in her thoughts that she didn’t even hear him behind her, and flinches when he touches her, before shoving him away from her.

   “I don’t want to talk to you right now,” she spits, continuing towards the door without looking at him.

   He reaches for one of her wrists, and this time, she doesn’t shake him off, maybe because she _wants_ to hear his excuses, wants to hear him try to explain his actions, so that she’ll get to tell him to go fuck himself and then leave without looking back at him.

   And then she’s going to go home and drink a whole fucking bottle of wine all by herself ... no, whisky, she’s going to go and buy whisky and drink until she can’t feel anything.

   What comes out of the Doctor’s mouth is a broken “Clara, I have no idea of why you’re upset!”.

   “No idea?” Clara echoes, and she’d laugh, if she wasn’t so angry. “You’re fucking some other woman half an hour before we were supposed to meet and you have no idea of why I’m upset?”

   “I’m not ... she’s my _daughter_ , Clara!”

   Clara blinks away the tears in the corners of her eyes. “You don’t have a daughter.”

   “I could show you the fucking birth certificate, if it wasn’t for the fact of how ridiculous this entire conversation is,” he snaps back at her. “Why on earth would I even lie to you about something like that?”

   “She can’t be much younger than me,” Clara breathes.

   “And I can’t be much younger than your father. Are you seriously surprised by that I have a child?”

   Clara shakes her head. “I don’t ... I don’t know.”

   “Go, if you can’t deal with it,” the Doctor says, his breaths gradually slowing down.

   “No,” Clara finally says after a long, heavy silence. Her heart is pounding so hard that she can hear her pulse in her ears, and god, she feels bad, she feels really bad. “I didn’t expect it, that’s all. I’m sorry. I ... I shouldn’t have jumped to the conclusion I did. I shouldn’t have trusted the rumours about you, from the start.”

   “They’re not all made up, you know,” the Doctor admits, looking down at his feet. He’s not wearing any shoes, only a pair of light grey socks.

   Clara doesn’t say anything, she just touches one of his cheeks softly before nodding towards the stairs. “Shall we ...?”

   “Do you want to meet her?”

   “Can’t leave a worse impression on her than I already did, can I?”

   “Yeah,” the Doctor says, “that was pretty disastrous.”

   Clara steals a glance of him over a shoulder to find the shadow of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. She grimaces back at him, but to be honest, she’s more relieved about that everything seems to be okay between the two of them than she’d like to admit even to herself. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for leaving kudos and commenting, I love all of you.  
> (Also, you should listen to Worship by Years & Years, that song is basically the only soundtrack this fic needs.)

Clara’s pretty sure of that her first meeting with the Doctor’s daughter, Romana, isn’t the most awkward meeting in history, but she sure as hell wouldn’t want to suffer through any of the more awkward meetings. Clara stutters an apology for her earlier behaviour and then the three of them drink coffee together in the Doctor’s living room, ask each other polite questions and exchange a few not-quite-laughs, but none of them meet each other’s eyes. When Romana finally leaves, Clara feels like she can breathe for the first time in twenty minutes.

   “She hates me,” Clara groans, lying down on the sofa with her face buried against the white leather.

   “You barely know each other yet,” the Doctor says, grabbing her feet and placing them in his lap.

   She turns around so that she’ll be able to look at him. “The worst part is that I totally understand why. I’d hate me, too, if I were her. I’ve never gotten along with my step mum, but at least she’s my dad’s age, not in her twenties. Not that I’m comparing myself to my step mum. I mean, we’re not even dating.”

   “We went on a date,” the Doctor reminds her.

   Clara grimaces at him. “I thought the whole dinner thing wasn’t more than foreplay.”

   “Well,” he says, “that, too, but I think it qualifies as a date, as well.”

   “So we’re dating?” Clara asks him, an eyebrow raised.

   A corner of his mouth twitches. “I didn’t say that.”

   Clara sits up, closes the distance between the two of them and straddles his lap. “So what _did_ you say?”

   “That I would be open to the possibility of us maybe, potentially dating?”

   “I’ll get back to you on that one,” Clara says, because, well, fuck. She doesn’t have an answer to his question. She can barely comprehend it. Shagging the Doctor is one thing, but actually agreeing to _date_ him? You might as well put your heart in a fucking blender. So instead she rolls her hips against his. “Now, you mentioned what you’d like to do with me, earlier …”

   “Clara,” he says, his voice slightly breathless. “I’d love to, but you don’t trust me, do you?”

   “And do you?” she asks him. “Trust me?”

   “I trust you enough.”

   Clara avoids his gaze by leaving feather light kisses along his collar bones. “Yeah?”

   The Doctor gently pushes her away. “Clara, we need to talk this through, okay?”

   She hates letting him be the responsible one, but on the other hand, she knows he’s got a point, so at last, she moves to the sofa table with a sigh. “So talk.”

   “Let’s start with the basics,” the Doctor says. “I take it you’re clean?”

   “Yep,” Clara says. “You?”

   “Yeah. What about contraception?”

   “I’m on the pill.”

   “And have you had any previous experiences with BDSM sex?”

   Clara nudges his feet with hers. “What is this, an interrogation?”

   He rolls his eyes at her. “Just answer the question.”

   “No, or, like, only really light BDSM. Similar experiences to our last time. And I’ve never been the dominant before.”

   “So you’re comfortable with switching roles?”

   “I suppose so,” she says with a shrug. “I mean, I have no idea of whether I’d actually enjoy any of it, yet, but I don’t mind the idea.”

   “You have to tell me if anything makes you feel uneasy, okay?”

   “I will.”

   The Doctor rises from the sofa and takes one of Clara’s hands, leading her through the living room and towards what she remembers as his study. He stops in the doorway, nodding towards the old-fashioned chest of drawers in the room, and Clara hesitantly crosses the floor towards it. In the top drawer, she finds rope and blindfolds, and she casts a glance at the Doctor over her shoulder before opening another drawer. She won’t pretend to know the words for all of the stuff in the chest of drawers, hell, she can barely figure out the use of some of the equipment.

   “Um,” she finally says, holding some kind of whip. “Okay.”

   “Tell me what you’re thinking,” the Doctor says, still leaning against the frame of the doorway.

   Clara puts the whip back down, shuts the drawer and turns around to face him. “So, you’re obviously into … some kinky shit.”

   “If you want to back out, that’s all right.”

   She watches him quietly for a few seconds. A part of her _is_ a little scared, but she’s undeniably aroused, as well, for reasons she can’t quite fathom. “Not yet, no. At least I don’t think so. Can I tie you up?” God, did she really just say that?

   “Do you want to?” the Doctor asks her, his gaze focused on her in that ridiculously intense way of his.

   She leans her back against the chest of drawers. “Do you want me to?”

   He bites his lip. “I’d be willing to give it a try.”

   “I don’t actually know how to tie someone up, though,” Clara admits with a slightly nervous laugh.

   “I’ll show you,” the Doctor says.

   “Can I ask you a question?”

   “Go on.”

   “Why _do_ you trust me?”

   “Your novel,” he says. “I know there’s a lot of stuff happening in it leading towards the break-up, but all of it comes back to that the characters don’t trust each other, doesn’t it? That’s the main reason behind why it doesn’t work out between the two of them.”

   “Yeah. I suppose so.”

   “So, that’s why I trust you. Because it seems to matter to you. Being able to trust people.”

   “That’s a rubbish reason,” Clara says, meaning it. “You of all people should know that people don’t always write about their own experiences.”

   “I also know that just because you don’t write about your own experiences doesn’t mean they don’t shine through your writing.”

   “So there _are_ autobiographical elements to your novels?” Clara asks him.

   “They’re definitely not autobiographical,” he says, “and it’s not intentional, but yeah, to a certain degree I think everything you write is influenced by your own experiences. Feel free to correct me if you think I’m wrong, though.”

   “No,” Clara says, “I agree with you. I just never ...”

   She shuts her mouth when she realises that she was just about to admit to him that she’s been a fan of his novels for years, and fuck, she’s too deep into this mess.


	9. Chapter 9

“I’m not sure if I can do this,” Clara admits to the Doctor. He’s naked, lying on his back in his bed, and she’s doing her very best to keep her gaze above his waist. She’s holding a couple of ropes, and her stomach is clenching, partly due to arousal, but mostly due to fear.

   “You never answered my question,” the Doctor says, his tone understandably strained.

   She watches him for a couple of seconds, trying to figure out what the hell he’s talking about, before she has to give up and shake her head. “I have no idea of what you’re talking about.”

   “Do you want to?” he asks her.

   Her answer falls from her lips before she’s had time to think it over, and maybe, it’s just as simple as that. “Yes.”

   “And I’m feeling more and more uncomfortable here by the second, so go on, do it,” he tells her.

   “Don’t boss me around,” she bites back. “I’m the one who’s supposed to be in control, not you.”

   “There you go,” he says, a smile playing on his lips.

   Clara realises that he’s playing with her, manipulating her to do it, and she doesn’t want to admit to it working, but fuck, it does. He seems to know exactly how to push her buttons, exactly how to trigger that part of her that’s constantly struggling for control.

   She doesn’t think either one of them expects it when she actually climbs on top of him, though, going by his sharp intake of breath. Her hands tremble when she wraps the silk rope around his wrists and the posts of the headboard, carefully tying the rope into knots in the way the Doctor showed her. The knots are tight enough for him not to be able to move his hands, but loose enough for her to be able to be sure of that it would be possible for him to break free from them, were he to want to. That was his condition for letting her do this, the reason behind why he didn’t let her touch any of the handcuffs in his drawers. _Not yet_ , he told her, and she didn’t say so out loud, but silently, she agreed with him, because god knows this is terrifying enough.

   His cock is visibly twitching by the time she’s done with the knots, and she shoots him a triumphant smile to which he replies with a grimace.

   “Tell me about how you feel,” she tells him. She’s still fully clothed, sitting on the foot end of the bed with her legs crossed.

   “What do you think?” he asks her, making the question sound like a challenge. Perhaps it is.

   “What I think?” she says. “You’ve written twelve books, I think you can give me a better answer than that.”

   “Do you want me to describe it all to you by using metaphors and purple prose?”

   “Don’t,” she says, and suddenly, her voice isn’t trembling anymore. She’s not sure about from where she’s gained her newfound confidence, but it’s there, and she intends to make use of it. “Don’t play games with me. I’ll punish you.”

   A corner of the Doctor’s mouth twitches, and she realises that she’s falling for all of his tricks, that she’s simply in the position he wants her in, following his indirect, complicated orders. What she isn’t sure of is whether she likes it or not.

   “Time is passing by,” she says, when he doesn’t show any signs of opening his mouth again. “We haven’t got forever. Come on, tell me.” Even to Clara’s own ears, the words sound more like a plea than a demand.

   “I want you to undress,” he says. “Let’s make a deal, okay? You’ll get out of that bloody dress, and I’ll stop playing games with you. For tonight.”

   Clara shakes her head. “That’s not how it works.”

   “There are no rulebooks,” he says. “We can make up the rules by ourselves.”

   “Yeah?” Clara says, raising an eyebrow. “Well, I’m not going to let you come until you decide that my rules are good enough for you and start playing by them.”

   “Clara, my Clara, I think you will,” he says, a dangerous glint in his eyes.

   “If there’s something I’ve learned as a teacher,” she says, “it’s that threats don’t work unless you deliver.”

   “True,” he agrees.

   “Don’t play games with me,” she repeats, closing the distance between the two of them until she’s sitting on his thighs. When she slowly begins to stroke his length, he shudders beneath her, and for a moment, all his resistance seems to be forgotten, but then he opens his mouth again, because of course he does.

   “Take off your dress.”

   “Is it a way for you to steal back your control from me?” she asks him before leaning down to take him into her mouth, running her tongue along the veins. A couple of swear words escape his mouth before he bites his tongue. She pulls her head back, licking her lips. “Refusing to play by my rules?”

   His eyes are so hazy that she isn’t even sure of whether he can see her, but he still manages to keep his tone unruffled. “I couldn’t care less about being in control. It’s the struggle for dominance that’s interesting.”

   The Doctor might not have any difficulty with formulating coherent words yet, but she can barely understand his, too distracted by the intensified throbbing between her legs. She wants so badly to sink down onto his length and thrust her hips against his, but she forces herself to focus and places her lips around his erection again, taking him so deep she can feel tears burning in her eyes.

   “Fucking _hell_ , Clara,” he groans, and she keeps at it until she knows he’s painfully close, his fists clenched above his head, his knuckles white.

   “You can’t come,” she reminds him, tracing her tongue along the insides of his thighs.

   “To hell with the rules.” He sounds more desperate than Clara’s ever heard him sound, and if it wasn’t for the fact that she feels like she’s burning up, she’d probably enjoy it. “We can discuss them tomorrow.”

   “Threats don’t work unless you deliver,” is all she says while she strokes him with one hand, her words slightly breathless.

   “Clara, just ... _fuck_ , stop doing that, I _am_ going to come if you ...”

   “Let’s make a deal,” she repeats his words from before. “I’ll let you come, if you promise to get me off afterwards.”

   He just nods, and she takes his length into her mouth again, swirling her tongue around his head before taking him deeper. His hips arch upwards, and then his eyes flutter shut. Clara feels like she’s about to choke, but swallows.

   When the Doctor finally starts to come back down from the orgasm, Clara has untied the knots and curled up next to him. He rolls to his side to face her, his gaze still absent-minded.

   “I believe I have a promise to keep,” he mumbles.

   “You do.”

   “Can I ask you a question first?”

   “I don’t know, can you?”

   “Stereotypical English teacher, aren’t you?”

   “How could I resist?”

   “Where did you learn to give head like that?”

   “I’m naturally talented.”

   “Not a chance, Oswald.”

   She grins back at him.

   “Am I allowed to get you out of that dress, now?” he asks her, brushing a fingertip along its neckline, sending shivers down her spine.

   “I think you might be, yeah.”


	10. Chapter 10

“I should go,” Clara mumbles, her head buried against the Doctor’s bare chest. She’s still lost in a post-orgasmic haze, lightheaded but content, the memory of his lips against her skin and his tongue tracing the inside of her thighs lingering on her mind. If she closes her eyes, she can almost hear her breathless moans echoing in the room. “I have work tomorrow.”

   The Doctor doesn’t move from where he’s lying with his arms around her, and his tone is as absent-minded as Clara’s when he opens his mouth. “You still haven’t told me what you thought about my book, you know.”

   She raises her head slightly to be able to look him in the eyes. “Why do you care so much about it? What if I hated it? Would you still want to know?”

   “Either way,” he says with a grimace, “that book has earned me over four million pounds.”

   “Bragging about your money, are you?”

   “Well, if I can’t brag about my writing skills to you, I’ve got to have something else to brag to you about, right?” the Doctor says, and there’s something so ambiguous to his voice that Clara can’t figure out whether he’s serious or just fucking with her, but then he starts laughing.

   She hides the smile that spreads across her own lips against his chest. “Fuck you.”

   “You already did, dear.”

   “Yeah, I noticed,” she mumbles, sucking lightly at the skin on one of his bony shoulders, leaving a rose-tinted mark on it.

   He doesn’t stop her, just holds her closer, slowly stroking her hair.

   “So, did you?” he finally breaks the silence that has fallen over the room by asking, and she feels like she should know what he’s talking about, but all she can think about is how gorgeous he looks in the moonlight that’s seeping in through the windows.

   “Did I what?”

   “Hate it?”

   “’Course I didn’t.”

   The Doctor’s gaze flickers between Clara and the ceiling, as if he’s scared of looking straight at her, and the fragility in his expression reminds her of their last night together. “No?”

   “There’s a quote from it that has stuck with me,” she says. “’Love is not an emotion. Love is a promise.’ The first time we met, you asked me if I believed in love. And I don’t know, maybe I do, maybe I don’t, but either way, that quote made me cry, because I think ... I think that’s what love is, you know? I think that’s what it _should_ be. But yeah. I liked the book. Loved it, in fact.” She grimaces. “Just don’t let it go to your head.”

   The Doctor shakes his head. “I won’t.”

   “So,” she says, reluctantly tearing herself away from him, rising from the bed on slightly wobbly legs. “I should go.”

   The Doctor sits up in the bed, leaning his back against its headboard, and his eyes don’t leave Clara while she gets dressed, his gaze as intense as ever.

   “You’re beautiful,” he tells her after she’s kissed him goodbye, lingering with her lips on his for just a second too long.

   The corners of her mouth curve upwards. “I know.”

   “Are you planning on disappearing again or can I expect to see you again in the near future?”

   “This weekend,” Clara says. “Take me on a date. An actual, proper date. I don’t care about what we do, just ... surprise me.”

   He regards her quietly for a couple of seconds before he nods, and somehow, she knows that he is aware of how difficult it is for her to leave it all up to him.

   She’s pretended not to have issues with constantly having to be in control of everything for years, denying it even to herself, but the truth is that her entire world crumbles every time she can feel her sense of control slip away from her. It’s always been that way, to a certain degree, but then her mum died, and ironically enough, her desperate attempts at maintaining control over a situation she really had no control over whatsoever made her issues spiral out of control.

   Usually when she’s slept with people, she’s preferred to let them take the upper hand in the situation because it’s one of the few activities during which she’s been able to relax, but it’s been different with the Doctor. Dominating him hasn’t been stressful or made her jittery with anxiety, but rather, it has felt like getting to _have_ that control that she’s needed so badly, without having to worry about that it could slip away from her in any minute, and that has been more comforting than actually being relaxed ever could be. It doesn’t make any sense, not really, but god knows nothing about her issues has ever been logical.

 

 

During the week that follows, Clara quite literally can’t stop writing. She rushes through all of her obligations in order to be able to get back to writing, and at school, she lets her students watch film versions of the novels they’re discussing, so that she’ll be able to write during the lessons. It’s probably not entirely ethical, writing shameless sex scenes while she’s sitting in front of her innocent students and is supposed to be teaching them about literature, but she reaches ten thousand words, and then fifteen thousand, and nothing else really seems to matter to her.

   When Amy calls Clara on Friday evening, Clara’s just changed into sweatpants and huddled up in her bed together with her laptop and a bag of mixed sweets.

   “I’m busy,” Clara groans into the phone, the fingers on her free hand hovering over the keyboard of her laptop.

   “What are you doing, shagging someone?” Amy asks her.

   “Yeah, and he’s rubbish in bed, that’s why I picked up the phone.”

   “Ha-ha,” Amy says, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

   “I’m writing,” Clara explains, skimming through the last paragraph on the screen.

   Amy lets out a gasp. “You’re _writing_?”

   “Took your advice and found myself a muse,” Clara says, a crooked smile on her lips.

   “Give me a synopsis of the manuscript.”

   “Absolutely not.”

   “Clara, come on, I’m dying here, it’s been forever since you last wrote anything, and I’m your biggest fan _and_ your best friend, and you’re going to have to show it to me sooner or later, anyway, if you’re aspiring to get it published.”

   Clara buries her head among her pillows at the thought of letting anyone read what she’s written so far of the novel. “It’s ... complicated,” she finally manages.

   “Complicated?” Amy echoes. “Is that all you have to say?”

   “Yep,” Clara says. “Complicated.”

   “Okay,” Amy says, “I’ll promise not to mention it to you, if you promise that I’ll get to read it as soon as it’s finished.”

   Clara can feel her heart skip a beat at the thought, her insides cold with terror, but at the same time, she knows that Amy’s right in that she’ll have to show it to her sooner or later, so with a sigh, she gives in to her. “I promise.”


	11. Chapter 11

When the Doctor turns up at Clara’s flat the next day, she’s drunk about twelve cups of coffee in order to feel like a human after accidentally having stayed up writing the whole night. She spent over half an hour on trying to cover the shadows beneath her eyes with makeup, but nonetheless, the first thing the Doctor comments on after having kissed her cheeks is how tired she looks.

   She grimaces at him. “You sure know how to flatter a girl.”

   He grins back. “I try.”

   “I had a ... stroke of inspiration. Couldn’t stop writing. Sleeping didn’t feel particularly important in comparison to finishing the chapter I was working on.”

   “I didn’t interrupt your work, did I?”

   She shakes her head. “No, I’ve written so much during this past week that I’m dying to get a break from the nov ... thing. The thing that I’m writing that may or may not eventually result in a novel.”

   “Do you want to talk to me about it?” he asks her, watching her while she buttons her coat.

   She can feel her cheeks blush. “I hope you don’t mind it if I say no?”

   “I never talk to anybody about any of my novels while I’m writing them, so no, I understand.”

   “Oh. Are you ... are you working on something new?”

   “I might be,” he admits. “Or, well, I’ve been working on it since I finished editing Death in Heaven, but I’m not sure about whether any of it is any good. There’s something about it that I can’t seem to ...”

   Clara freezes in her place. “So it’s not ... it’s not about me?”

   The Doctor raises an eyebrow. “Why would it be about you?”

   “No, of course it isn’t. Forget I asked.”

   He doesn’t let go of the topic that easily, which Clara supposes was only to be expected. “You don’t _want_ me to write about you, do you? That’s why you’re going out with me? For attention? You could have just asked me, you know. I honestly wouldn’t have minded blurbing your novel.”

   “No,” Clara says, shaking her head. “Fuck, I didn’t mean it in that way. I really didn’t. I’m glad you’re not writing about me. And you definitely don’t have to blurb my novel. I like you, okay? I know I shouldn’t, but I do.”

   The Doctor looks flabbergasted. “You do?”

   “Are you honestly surprised to hear that?”

   “Maybe.”

   Clara can’t help but feel terrible. “You’re an idiot. How could I not like you? I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but everyone does.”

   “Everyone,” he says with a snort. “I don’t know if _you_ have noticed, but most people can’t stand me. It’s my books they like.”

   “That’s not ...” Clara begins, but, well, to be perfectly honest, he’s got a point in what he’s saying. She’s never heard anyone say anything particularly positive about him as a person. Which really, really isn’t fair, as far as she can tell. She, on the other hand, has fucked up royally, by judging him by their opinions, without paying the man in front of her much attention.

   “Exactly,” the Doctor says, and it takes a moment for her to realise that he’s commenting on her silence rather than on her thoughts. “The only reason people care about me is because they want things from me that nobody else can give them. Another novel, sex, pretty words about how much I love them, the attention that comes with having a novel by a famous author written about you, even if it's only rumours ...”

   Clara feels sick, god, she actually feels like she might throw up. “Why do you?” she asks him, her voice a little shaky. “Give them it?”

   The Doctor focuses his gaze on her. “Because I don’t have anything if I don’t, do I?”

   She shakes her head, and at the same time as the words leave her lips, she realises that she means them. “You have me.”

   “Clara ...”

   “You don’t owe anyone anything,” she says. “You shouldn’t ... people shouldn’t like you because of what you can give them, they should like you because of who you are. Don’t give them things they don’t deserve, okay?”

   The Doctor looks down at his feet. “It’s not that easy.”

   Clara closes the distance between the two of them and places a hand on his cheek. He winces at the contact, but doesn’t move, his breaths coming out in short bursts.

   “Hey,” Clara says, forcing him to look at her. “I’m sorry.”

   “No,” he says, kissing her on the forehead, “I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have to deal with any of my problems.”

   “And what if I want to?”

   “Trust me, you don’t,” he says, his tone cutting off the conversation. “Now, did we or did we not have a date planned?”

   Clara regards him for a moment before she lets her hand fall down and takes a step back from him. “Depends on whether you planned anything for us, doesn’t it?”

   The corners of his mouth twitch. “Well, I thought about taking you on a weekend trip to Rome, but I decided against it at the last minute, so what I have planned isn’t quite as fancy. On second thought, I probably should have taken you to Rome.”

   “God, no, you really shouldn’t.”

   “I thought that was every woman’s dream, getting swept away to some romantic city by a strangely compelling, masculine figure ...”

   Clara can’t help but laugh. “A secret sucker for romance, are you?”

   His lips curve upwards in a sad smile. “Aren’t we all?”

   “Yeah,” she agrees, “I suppose you’re right. But I’d still not let you take me to fucking Rome.”

   “I figured as much, considering how much you hated me paying for the food at the restaurant.”

   “I didn’t hate it, it’s just that ... the problem is that if I let you pay for things, I’ll feel like I owe you something,” Clara says. “And I don’t want this ... whatever this is, I don’t want it to be about me owing you anything. Outside of the bedroom, I want us to be equals, or as close to equals as we can get, because that’s the only way this is ever going to work out, at least for me.”

   “Understood,” the Doctor says, “but me paying for things really doesn’t equal to you owing me anything, you know. You told me not to give people things they don’t deserve, right? And you do. You deserve it.”

   Clara shakes her head. “I’m not sure about whether I would agree with that.”

   “Clara, I’m terribly sorry, but you do.”

   She avoids his gaze, guilt building up inside her.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for leaving kudos and commenting, I really appreciate it. xx

“You’re not kidnapping me, are you?” Clara asks the Doctor when they’re a little over an hour away from London. She’s enjoying the car ride with him, that’s not it, but not knowing where he’s taking her is making her chest clench with anxiety.

   “Fuck, you figured out my plan,” he says, his tone amused.

   Clara glares at him. “I’m serious.”

   “We’re almost there, I promise.”

   “It seems like we’re pretty much in the middle of nowhere.”

   “The middle of nowhere?” the Doctor says with a laugh, gesturing towards the houses on the side of the road. “For how long have you lived in the city?”

   Clara refuses to let the mocking in his voice affect her. “I moved there the summer before uni, so ... about a decade?”

   “And where did you grow up? Somewhere in the north, I presume?”

   “Blackpool.”

   “I’ve been there a couple of times for signings,” the Doctor says, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. “Didn’t get the chance to see much of it, though.”

   “There’s not much to see,” Clara says.

   “You don’t sound particularly fond of the town.”

   She shrugs, biting her lip so hard that she can feel the taste of blood in her mouth.

   “Something happened, didn’t it?” the Doctor says, his gaze focused on her across the car.

   “Keep your eyes on the road,” she tells him. “I don’t want to end up dead because you were busy with trying to analyse my body language or whatever the fuck you’re doing.”

   “Talk, then, so I don’t have to look at you to know what you’re thinking.”

   “You go first,” she says. “Tell me about your past, and then I’ll tell you about mine.” Of course she’s aware of that he won’t tell her anything, but it doesn’t matter, as long as she doesn’t let him convince her to talk about her own past. She’s kept it buried for years and she’s sure as hell not going to let it start haunting her again.

   As expected, the Doctor is quiet for a long time. When he finally breaks the silence, it’s to tell Clara that they’ve arrived, as if she couldn’t figure that out by how he’s parked the car, but she’s so relieved he’s talking to her again that she feels like she can breathe out for the first time in many, many minutes.

   “Where are we?” she asks him, opening the door to the car and stepping out onto the parking lot, from which you have a view over the sea. She shivers in the cold, pulling her coat tighter around herself.

   “I spent a summer working here when I was younger,” he says, nodding towards a café located in an old, white building on the beach. “Lived with an old lady who absolutely hated tourists and locked me out of her house if I wasn’t home by eleven o’clock in the evenings. I wrote my first novel in between getting yelled at by customers and getting yelled at by her.”

   Clara can’t help but smile. “Deep Breath?”

   “God, no, Deep Breath was the twelfth novel I wrote. Nobody was even remotely interested in publishing any of the ones I wrote before it. And understandably so. Most of them were terrible.” He reaches out a hand towards her. “Shall we?”

   “It was really the twelfth novel you wrote?” Clara asks him while they walk towards the café, their hands intertwined.

   “Yep.”

   “And you never gave up?”

   “Getting published was never my goal, it was just some kind of distant dream. It was lovely when it happened, but it wasn’t why I wrote. If it had been, I’d stopped writing a long time ago.”

   “Do you love it?” Clara asks him, stopping in front of the door to the café and looking up at him to meet his eyes. “I know you told me you’re addicted to it, but do you love it, writing?”

   He regards her for a few seconds before he finally tears his gaze away from her. “It’s my life.”

   Before Clara can say anything, he’s entered the building, and she can only swallow her words and follow him.

   Clara’s stomach rumbles at the sight of the food in the café, so she orders a veggie bagel sandwich, while the Doctor only buys a cup of coffee for himself. Most of the tables are empty, so they sit down at one next to the windows.

   “You can see France on the other side of the sea, when it isn’t this foggy,” the Doctor says, sipping on his coffee, his gaze focused on the sea.

   “Aren’t you hungry?” Clara asks him, wiping away the mayonnaise from the sandwich that has stained her chin.

   He shakes his head, gripping his cup harder. “Not particularly.”

   “Is it just in front of others that you don’t eat?”

   He’s quiet for several seconds, and Clara’s afraid of that they’re going to have to suffer through another silence like the one in the car, but thankfully, he opens his mouth again before it goes that far. “Why did you start writing?”

   She doesn’t comment on how he’s switching the topic of conversation, because god knows it’s obvious that he doesn’t want to talk about his eating habits. “I’ve always loved books. Figured I might as well write one.”

   The Doctor hums. “Why did you _really_ start writing?”

   Clara takes a bite of her sandwich and then sighs. “Because I wanted revenge on somebody.”

   “Interesting, but it’s still not the truth, is it?”

   “And you’re really bloody annoying sometimes, do you know that?” Clara says, but the irritation in her tone aside, a smile is tugging at the corners of her mouth.

   The Doctor looks equally amused. “I know.”

   “I was lonely,” she admits, looking down at her hands. “I’d just found out about that my girlfriend had been cheating on me for almost a year. I was angry and frustrated and ... just so fucking heartbroken, you know? And I didn’t really ... I’d lost all of my friends while we were together, after having been stupid enough to neglect them because I wanted to spend all my time with her. I was just starting to reconnect with them and our relationships were still so fragile that I couldn’t even mention her name in front of them, so I ... I started writing. Back then I really did think about it as some sort of revenge on her, but in hindsight, I think it was just me doing my best to sort out all of the feelings that I couldn’t talk to anyone about. It wasn’t ... the novel, it isn’t about her. It never was.”

   When she steals a glance at the Doctor, his gaze is directed towards the sea, again. “It’s never easy, getting your heart broken.”

   “Tell me about who broke your heart,” Clara says, and this time, her question isn’t part of a game.

   “Well,” he says, “you must have figured out that Romana has got a mother.”

   “Yeah, I’m quite aware of how children are conceived.”

   He slowly runs a fingertip around the rim of his cup. “It was never serious between the two of us. She was an archaeologist. Travelled all around the world. I was madly in love with her. Madly, and hopelessly so. I would have married her in a heartbeat, but she wasn’t interested in settling down. We hadn’t seen each other in seven months when she suddenly turned up at my house with Romana in her arms and asked me to take care of her so that she could focus on her work.”

   “Fuck,” is all Clara can think of saying.

   “I didn’t mind taking care of her,” the Doctor says. “I’d always wanted children, and I wasn’t short of money, so, you know, it could have been far worse. I just wish I’d gotten to raise her together with someone. Well, together with _her_. But at the same time, I wanted her to be happy, and she wouldn’t have been happy together with me, I know that.”

   “I’m so sorry.”

   “Don’t be. I don’t want you to feel sorry for me, okay? That’s not why I’m telling you any of this.”

   “Can I ask you something?” Clara asks him, slowly stirring her tea.

   “Go on.”

   “Are you only interested in me because I’m another woman for you to distract yourself with or does this mean more than that to you?”

   “Clara, Clara, Clara,” he says, his lips twitching up into a smile. “What do you think?”

   _I think I’m fucked, either way._


	13. Chapter 13

“You know,” Clara says when they’ve returned to the car after having drunk more coffee and taken a walk along the beach, making small talk about books by other authors, “I’ve never had sex in a car.”

   The Doctor avoids looking at her. “I’m kind of afraid to ask if there’s a reason behind why you’re bringing up this particular subject.”

   “Well,” she says, “I’m a firm believer in that you should try everything once.”

   “Or you just want to fuck me,” he suggests, his gaze still focused on the parking lot, but there’s a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

   Clara places a hand on his leg. “Am I really that obvious?”

   “I’m not even sure I’m that flexible,” the Doctor says, but he doesn’t mention her hand, and she purposefully moves it closer towards his crotch. “ _Clara_ ,” he breathes. “Anyone could see us here.”

   “I know,” she says, stroking him through the fabric of his trousers.

   His eyes flutter shut and he leans his head back against the car seat. “Have you ever heard of the word patience?”

   “I suppose I might have, sometime, but it’s not a word I’m too familiar with.”

   “That much is obvious,” the Doctor manages, before biting his lip to stifle a groan. “Clara, please. I’ll fuck you as soon as we return to my flat, but not here.”

   She smiles wickedly at him. “Is that a promise?”

   “Yes.”

   “Well, then.”

 

 

The truth is that Clara’s too close to falling for him, that she gets more and more intrigued by him for every minute she spends in his company, and she needs to distract herself from that and remind herself of that this is just about sex. She’s ready to admit that the Doctor might not be the person she thought he was, according to all the rumours she’s heard about him, but that sure as hell doesn’t mean that he’s someone she should think of as boyfriend material.

   The worst thing is that she doesn’t know whether all of this is just what normally happens between the Doctor and the women whose hearts he breaks. Is she just another cliché, letting herself believe that maybe, just maybe, their relationship means more than that to him? Is she making the mistakes she swore herself that she’d never do?

   The Doctor was right the time he commented on that she doesn’t trust him. She doesn’t, she doesn’t know how to, and she doesn’t know if she wants to. She doesn’t like trusting people, doesn’t like how vulnerable it makes you. You give them the power to hurt you, and you hope they don’t, but if there’s one thing she’s learned, it’s that most times, they do.

 

 

Clara presses her lips against the Doctor’s as soon as he’s closed the door to his flat behind them, shoving his coat off his shoulders and fumbling with the buttons on his shirt, desperate to stop _thinking_. He places a fingertip on her lips before sinking down onto his knees and tugging off her underwear. Clara finds herself moaning when he traces circles with his tongue on the insides of her thighs. It’s slow and deliberate and fucking agonising.

   “Get to it,” she commands him, tangling her hands into his grey locks, and he complies, letting his teeth scrape softly against the skin between her legs as he does. He brushes the tip of his tongue against her clit for a short moment before he dips it into her, teasing her by never letting it linger anywhere. Clara’s skin tingles, and her breaths are growing shallower for every passing second. “You’re such a fucking arsehole.”

   The Doctor pulls his head back for a second, looking up at her with a grin on his lips. “You love it.”

   “You’re probably right,” she admits.

   When he returns his mouth to between her legs, he’s licking and sucking exactly where she wants him to. She finds herself instinctively thrusting her hips against his head, her legs trembling beneath her.

   “Stop,” she tells him, her voice weak. “I want to be fucked by _you_ today, not your mouth.”

   He doesn’t listen, but sucks harder on her clit, slipping a finger into her, then another, and she’s overwhelmed by a sensation so blissful that she can’t do anything but lean her head back against the door and let him, unintelligible sounds falling from her lips.

   She shakes as she comes, her insides clenching, the world around her fading into darkness, and an eternity passes in the blink of an eye before she slowly starts to come back down from the orgasm, the ringing in her ears diminishing.

   “You should do as you are told,” she mumbles, the words slurred. “I’ll have to punish you for this, you know.”

   The Doctor raises an eyebrow, but there’s something amused in his expression. “What do you have in mind?”

   “Nothing you should be looking that smug about,” Clara tells him, sinking down onto the floor and stretching out her legs so that her toes touch the Doctor’s feet, where he’s sat down in front of her with his legs crossed.

   The Doctor licks his lips in a way that can’t possibly be unintentional. “Yeah?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you're wondering, I've deleted the last scene of this chapter, as it didn't feel like it worked.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> About the Doctor’s eating disorder in this fic: I was ill with anorexia for far too many years, so I sincerely hope I manage to portray it in a sensible way, but p l e a s e stop reading if it triggers you.

They fall asleep together, that night, Clara curled up against the Doctor’s chest, listening to his slow inhalations and exhalations, thoughts spinning in her head. Her instincts tell her to get up and leave the flat, but she can’t force herself to move. She blames it on that she misses being held, misses having someone who touches her almost unconsciously, misses waking up in someone else’s arms without either of them finding excuses to run away as soon as possible afterwards. She tells herself that it doesn’t matter who the person holding her is, that it just happens to be the Doctor, but deep down she obviously knows that she’s lying to herself.

   And he’s still there, the next morning, his arms around her, his body warm against hers.

   “You awake?” she whispers, and he mumbles something unintelligible in response. “Do you have any food in your kitchen? I’ll make us breakfast.”

   All at once, the Doctor sounds wide awake, slightly panicked. “You don’t have to. I usually just buy coffee on my way home from my morning run.”

   Clara rolls around to face him. His grey locks are tousled around his head, his eyes still shut. He’s so beautiful it hurts. “You haven’t eaten in almost a day.”

   He flutters his eyelids open, meeting her gaze with his. “Clara ...”

   “You can’t avoid eating in front of me forever,” she says. “You’re going to pass out, sooner or later.”

   He grimaces. “It’s not that simple.”

   Clara traces his cheekbone with a fingertip. “I’m not going to judge you, okay? You can ... tell me stuff. And if you absolutely can’t eat in front of me, I’ll wait here, as long as you promise me to eat _something_.”

   “I’ll try,” he says after a long silence, “but I need to prepare the food by myself, if that’s okay with you?”

   Clara nods. “Of course.”

   “Are you okay?” the Doctor asks her. “After last night?”

   “I feel like I should be the one asking you that question, not the other way around.”

   “I’d be lying if I said I enjoyed it to a hundred percent,” he says, “but I like ... I like being yours. I like not having to think, if that makes any sense at all?”

   Clara bites her lip. “Yeah, I guess I can understand what you mean.”

   “So,” the Doctor says, “are you?”

   “Am I what?”

   “Okay?”

   Is she okay? She doesn’t know, and she doesn’t know how to tell whether she is or isn’t. All she knows is that she doesn’t want this to stop. She’s addicted to it, in some twisted and deranged way, addicted to _him_.

   “I think I need some time to reflect upon everything,” she finally admits.

   The Doctor nods, brushing his lips against her forehead in a feather light kiss before he gets up from the bed and crosses the floor towards the wardrobe. Clara watches him while he gets dressed, lying on her side in the bed with an elbow propped against the mattress. She wonders if she should be getting used to seeing him vulnerable like that, but it still feels a little surreal, after he’s been her favourite author for years.

   “Are you coming?” he asks her when he’s stood there in a pair of black jeans and a dishevelled t-shirt with a skull print, looking like a twenty-year old art student who’s rolled out of bed just before his first lecture of the day and gotten dressed in a hurry.

   Clara pulls the blanket from the bed over her shoulders before she joins him to the kitchen, settling down on top of the kitchen island, swinging her legs back and forth through the air.

   The Doctor slowly lines up a bunch of vegetables from the refrigerator on the table before turning his attention to Clara. “Is bread and yoghurt okay?”

   “Anything,” Clara says, smiling tentatively at him.

   “I’ve got tea, as well,” he says, “and coffee, of course.”

   Clara reaches for his hands, interlacing her fingers with his. She tries to catch his gaze, but he looks straight past her. “Calm down,” she whispers, kissing his knuckles. “It’s just me.”

   “I know,” he says, his accent more prominent than usually. “That’s what’s so frustrating.”

   “How bad is it?” Clara asks him. “Your ...”

   “Eating disorder?” the Doctor finishes the sentence, wincing as he utters the words.

   Clara looks down at their hands. “Yeah.”

   “I’m recovering,” he says. “I _am_ getting better, I just ...” He takes a trembling breath. “There are some things that are still hard for me. Eating in front of others is one of them.”

   “I understand,” is all Clara can think of saying.

   “No, you don’t,” he says, letting go of her hands, “and you should count yourself lucky for that.”

   “Then explain it to me,” she says. “Talk to me. How am I ever going to be able to trust you unless you do?”

   “Don’t fucking tell me what to do,” he snaps at her, before leaning his head against the refrigerator door. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean ...”

   “I should go,” Clara says, jumping down from the kitchen island, pulling the blanket tighter around herself. She can feel her cheeks burning.

   The Doctor turns around to face her again, focusing his eyes on her, this time. “And will you return if you do?”

   She meets his gaze across the room. “Will you want me to?”

   “Of course,” the Doctor says, his expression unmoved. “Why wouldn’t I do that?”

   “I don’t know,” Clara says, the words more of a question than a statement.

   “I’ll be away for two weeks,” he says. “Book tour in the US.”

   “Oh.”

   “I’ll miss you, you know.”

   Clara hesitates for a second before she decides that the idea of not hearing from him in two weeks is worse than admitting that she _wants_ to hear from him. “Call me, if you want to. I’d love to hear about what you’re ... uh, about the book tour.”

   “I’ll call you,” the Doctor says, his tone vaguely amused. “Tell you all about the book tour.”

   “The book tour,” Clara agrees, before closing the distance between them and reaching up on her tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek. “And ... I’ll miss you, too.”


	15. Chapter 15

When Clara’s agent calls her to tell her that she needs to attend a meeting with Melanie Bush, the owner of her publishing house, Clara doesn’t think too much about it, since she’s been expecting Melanie to want to discuss her next novel with her.

   As soon as she shakes hands with Melanie and notices the sombre expression on her face, though, she realises that this is more than just another meeting, and instinctively prepares herself for the worst.

   “As you know, I loved your first novel,” Melanie begins when they’ve settled down in her office. The room’s light and airy, with panoramic windows from which the view over the city is breathtaking, but Clara can’t bring herself to focus on anything but how her hands are trembling. “We all do.”

   “Thank you ...?” Clara says, too unsure of where the conversation’s heading to be able to accept the compliment.

   “We’re finalising our releases for the winter right now,” Melanie says, “and there’s a gap in the schedule for December where I think your sophomore novel would fit right in.”

   Clara regards her hesitantly, waiting for her to continue, since she can sense that there’s more to it.

   “You’d have to submit a first draft to me by the end of this month, and provided we decide to publish it, you’d have to be prepared to finish all your edits before September.”

   Clara can’t help but open her mouth to protest. “That’s four months away, and I haven’t even started a novel yet.”

   Melanie raises an eyebrow. “Amy told me you were working on something.”

   “I was, yeah, but ...”

   “The thing is,” Melanie says, leaning her elbows against the table and placing her chin in her hands, “we’ve already given you several chances, and you haven’t turned in a single page of text to us since you finished your last novel.”

   “I know,” Clara says. “I know that, and I’m sorry.”

   “Obviously you aren’t under contract, so you’re free to do whatever you want to, but I’d be disappointed to see you ignore this opportunity, especially since there are quite a few people here who wouldn’t like to see me give it to you and are arguing for that you won’t deliver.”

   Clara meets her eyes for the first time during the meeting. “What exactly are you saying?”

   “I’m saying that we won’t publish your next novel unless you submit a first draft to me before the end of this month.”

 

 

Amy runs into the lift right before the doors close, her heels clattering against the floor.

   “I’m sorry,” she says as soon as the lift starts moving downwards. “I’m so, so sorry.”

   “You knew, didn’t you?” Clara says, keeping her gaze focused on the doors, unable to stand the sight of her. “You knew, and you didn’t say anything to me.”

   “I was the one who persuaded them to give you another chance!”

   “Thanks,” Clara snaps at her. “I have four months to write and edit an entire novel that I haven’t even started, and if I don’t, I’m fired. Fuck, this really is the best opportunity I could ever have wished for.” She knows she’s being unfair, taking her anger out on Amy for no reason, but she’s so tired, and so close to tears, and she’s got two lessons to suffer through before she can go home and cry.

   “I know you have started a novel,” Amy says, “and honestly, even if it’s shit, it’s better than nothing. If you don’t send anything to Mel, you can bet that she won’t ever give you another chance, but if you do, she might very well be prepared to let you write another one, even if she decides not to publish the novel you send her this month. You  _need_  to do stay on her good side, Clara.”

   Clara shakes her head. “It’s about the Doctor, okay? The novel, it’s about him, and I can’t do that to him, now that I’m beginning to get to know him.”

   The lift has reached the ground floor, but neither one of them has made any attempt to move from where they’re standing. “You’re choosing him over your career?” Amy says, the disapproval in her voice unmistakable.  

   “I’m not making a choice,” Clara says. “I’m doing what any decent person would do.”

   “Clara, I can assure you of that he’s done far worse things.”

   “I’m done with listening to rumours about him.”

   “And that’s probably a good decision, but for god’s sake, you’ve dreamt of being an author for your entire life. Don’t throw this opportunity away. Please. I’m begging you.”

   “I don’t know,” Clara whispers, blinking away the tears that are burning behind her eyelids before she presses the button that makes the doors to the lift slide open and walks out of the building, leaving Amy behind her.

 

 

Of course Clara ends up in front of her computer that evening, the document open on the screen, her hands hovering over the keyboard. She writes the first words reluctantly, barely letting her fingertips touch the keys. An hour later she’s written two thousand far too honest words and swears to herself that she’ll stop as soon as she finishes the chapter she’s working on. Four hours later, when her phone rings, she’s still sitting in front of the computer, working on her third chapter for the day.

   She forces herself to snap out of the haze and picks up the phone. The name on the screen makes her heart skip a beat and a couple of swear words fall from her lips.

   “Clara,” is the first thing he says.

   “Doctor,” she says, her voice breathless. “How ... how’s it been?”

   “Fine,” he replies, a little too quickly, and then hesitates for a couple of seconds before he continues. “I can’t sleep, though.”

   Clara closes the document on her computer before opening her mouth again, can’t stand facing the words on the screen. “Aren’t there, like, medicines you can take? Sleeping pills?”

   “I ran out of them a while ago,” he admits. “Thought I would be fine without them. Guess I was wrong about that.”

   “So go ask for a new prescription ...”

   “I wish you were here,” he interrupts her, and she’s so taken aback by his words that she completely forgets what she was about to say.

   “You do?”

   “Did I say too much?”

   Clara looks down at her hands. “No.”

   “Then why do you sound like you wish I hadn’t just said that so that you wouldn’t have to come up with a reply?”

    _Because I’m a terrible person? Because you wouldn’t even talk to me if you knew what I’m doing?_ “It’s been a long day, that’s all.”

   “Did something happen?” the Doctor asks her, his tone worried.

   “Nothing at all, no.”

   “Why are you lying?”

   Clara buries her face in her hands. “I had a meeting with Melanie Bush,” she finally decides to tell him, since she knows that she can’t avoid telling him why she’s going to spend the next month writing, regardless of whether she tells him anything about the novel or not. “I have to finish the first draft of the novel I’m working on before the end of the month, and if I don’t, she won’t give me any more chances.”

   The Doctor clicks his tongue against his teeth. “Harsh.”

   “Yeah,” Clara says, fumbling with a pen that’s lying on her desk, “and I just ... I don’t think I ever realised how important this is to me before now? I can’t mess this up. I  _can’t_.”

   “So why are you talking to me right now?” the Doctor asks her. “You should be writing. Call me when you finish the draft. Not a second before then.”

   Clara glances at the computer, her insides clenching. “I will.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't even know.

Two and a half weeks later, Clara writes the last word of the novel, and then she just sits and stares at the screen of her laptop for several minutes.

   _I did it. I actually did it._

There’s a week left of the month, and she’s going to have time to read through it before she sends it to Melanie, thank god for that, since there are several scenes in the beginning of the novel that she will have to revise before, as it couldn’t be more obvious that they’re about the Doctor. She’s tried to keep the rest of the novel as vague as possible, and while she knows that _he_ still will recognise himself among the words, it shouldn’t be too noticeable to anyone who isn’t familiar with his and Clara’s relationship.

   She gets up and finds her way to the kitchen, where she heats up a microwave meal and then settles down at the table with it and a glass of red wine. She hasn’t had time for cooking or grocery shopping during the past few weeks, but has spent all of her time outside of her work on writing.

   As soon as she’s done eating, she sends Amy a text with a bunch of exclamation marks, and then she ends up dialling the Doctor’s number.

   “I take it you’ve finished the draft?” he greets her.

   “Twenty minutes ago,” she says, doing her best to ignore the nagging guilt inside her chest. “Now, I didn’t get to ask you about it last time, so how was the book tour?”

   “Interesting,” he says, hesitating for a couple of seconds before he continues. “There were people cosplaying characters from my books, and lots of people screaming and asking for selfies with me. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that kind of stuff, but I can’t really complain, since I realise how privileged I am, you know? But god, for most of the time I just wanted to go home and get to _write_ instead of having to focus on promoting my novels. So I’m glad to be back. And you? Are you pleased with what you’ve written of the novel?”

   “Well,” Clara says, “it’s probably not the worst book ever written, but it’s certainly not the best one, either.”

   “That can be said about most books, can’t it?”

   “I don’t know, yet,” she admits. “I barely even know what I’ve written, I’ve just focused on getting the words down on paper.”

   “It’s better than nothing.”

   She shrugs. “Hopefully. So, can I come over, or are you busy?”

   “Wouldn’t have picked up the phone if I were.”

   “I’ll be there in half an hour,” she says. “I’ll make sure to wear my best underwear.”

 

 

“Don’t ask me any questions,” Clara tells the Doctor as soon as he opens the door to his flat, “just fuck me like I deserve to be fucked.”

   The Doctor regards her with caution in his eyes, holding her at an arm’s length. “Clara?”

   “I want you to,” she says, meeting his gaze defensively. “No playing around, no holding back, no over-thinking it.”

   “I’m not sure if ...” the Doctor begins, but before he’s finished the sentence, Clara’s closed the distance between the two of them and pressed her lips against his, forcing his lips open with her tongue. It takes a couple of seconds for him to respond to the kiss, but when he does, it’s with a similar intensity, reminiscent of desperation.

   “Please,” Clara whispers in between their bruising kisses, “please, Doctor, I need you to.”

   He sucks on her lower lip for a second before breaking apart from her again. “And you promise me you’ll use the safe word if I make you feel uncomfortable?”

   Clara nods, slipping a hand down into his trousers, but in the next moment, he lifts her up in his arms and carries her to his study, where he places her in the armchair next to the door.

   “Undress,” he tells her, before he turns to the chest of drawers to go through it.

   Clara shivers, but follows his order, pulling her dress over her head and unclasping her bra. When she’s down to her knickers and garters, the Doctor closes the distance between the two of them again. He places the ropes he’s gathered from the drawers on the floor and then falls down to his knees, peeling off Clara’s knickers with a cruel smile on his lips. He strokes his tongue over her sex almost excruciatingly slowly, sucking on her clit for a short moment before he pulls his head back and reaches for the ropes.

   He places a rope underneath her wrists at first, and carefully ties them to each other. “This okay?” he asks her, the expression on his face cautious again, but Clara just nods. With a low sigh, he proceeds to wrap more rope around her chest and stomach, constantly making sure that he can place two fingers beneath it without difficulty.

   When he lifts up Clara legs onto the chair, telling her to pull her knees up to her chest, she’s beginning to feel slightly uncomfortable, but not in a negative way. There’s something about it all that does turn her on, but she can’t place her finger on what. Willingly giving up all of her control to him? Letting him punish her for what she’s done? It should probably feel completely fucked up, but it doesn’t, it just makes her feel ... strangely safe. And perhaps that’s what’s the most terrifying about it all.

   The Doctor ties her wrists to her ankles, and then wraps another rope around her legs to the back of the chair. When he’s done, he takes a couple of steps back and regards his artwork with a glint in his eyes. Clara’s mostly focusing on trying to remember how to breathe.

   “You look beautiful,” he tells her, leaning down to stroke a hand over her hair.

   “Fuck you,” Clara tells him.

   “Soon,” he says, before crossing the floor to his computer and sinking down onto the chair in front of it, opening a word document.

   Clara grimaces. “Are you seriously just going to leave me here?”

   “Oh,” he says, before rising from the chair again, “right, I forgot something.”

   When he places the ball gag in Clara’s mouth she feels more fucking out of her depth than ever, but she’s also growing wetter between her legs by the second.

   “Cough two times if you want me to stop,” he tells her, and then returns to the computer.

 

 

He leaves her there for what must be over an hour while he types away on his computer, giving her sporadic smiles that she replies to with glares, occasionally coming over to her to check her blood circulation. A few times, he slips a couple of fingers into her teasingly, but he never gives her the satisfaction of lingering with his hands anywhere on her skin. She kind of sort of maybe hates him, and if it wasn’t for the goddamned gag, she has a feeling of that she’d already have lost all of her dignity by begging him to let her come. As it is, she can’t do more than wriggle in pathetic attempts to still the throbbing between her legs, while he sits calmly at his computer and writes, still fully dressed.

   When he finally turns off his computer, Clara’s trembling, and in the mood for murdering him.

   “Jesus _fuck_ ,” she moans when he unclasps the ball gag.

   The Doctor places a hand on her cheek. “You okay?”

   “Better than ever,” she tells him, a forced smile on her lips.

   “I’m serious,” he says.

   “Stop fussing, the only thing you have to worry about is the fact that I’m going to kill you unless you let me come soon.”

   “Patience, dear.”

   “Would _you_ be patient in my situation?”

   The Doctor kisses her on the forehead. “Stop complaining or I’ll leave you here for another hour.”

   “Funny.”

   “I’m serious.”

   She shuts up after that, and he slowly unties the knots on the rope. When she’s free again, she instinctively reaches with a hand down between her legs, but he grabs her wrist before her fingertips have even brushed her skin.

   “None of that,” he tells her. “Rise.”

   She gets up from the chair on slightly wobbly legs, and he places an arm around her shoulders as he leads her to the bedroom, telling her to lie down on the bed with her legs parted. She feels so humiliated when she follows his order that she barely can stand to face him.

   “Don’t move,” he says before he disappears from the room, and for a moment, she fears that he’s going to leave her again, dragging out the torture even longer, but then she hears his footsteps across the floor again.

   “Doctor, please ...” she begs him, her voice a mere whimper.

   “I’ll blindfold you,” he says, “but you have to tell me that you’re fine with it, first.”

   “ _Yes_ ,” she says, “I don’t care, do whatever you want, just fucking get on with it.”

   He carefully places the blindfold in front of her eyes, and then leaves a trace of kisses along her body before ordering her to get on her hands and knees. She swallows as she does as she is told, her back turned towards the Doctor.

   He slips a couple of fingers into her while adding pressure to her clit with another, and the feeling that rushes through the lower part of her stomach is so intense that she cries out without even intending to.

   “Hush, now, it’s okay,” the Doctor tells her, pressing his hips against her arse so that she can feel him through the fabric of his trousers.

   “Shut up,” she tries to tell him, but the words come out slurred.

   She can hear the sound of him unzipping his jeans, and then he places his cock between her legs, hard against her thighs, teasing her with it for a few seconds before he guides it into her.

   She’s gasping before he’s even wholly inside of her, her arms giving in beneath her so that her head falls down onto the mattress, her cheek leant against it. He fucks her roughly, his hands around her hips, and she’s falling apart underneath him, trembling uncontrollably.

   He doesn’t stop when she comes, but places a couple of fingers on her clit again, rubbing it harder than before while he continues thrusting into her. She can’t control her breathless moans, can’t control anything, really, but she’s far past caring.

   She’s pretty sure she blacks out for a couple of seconds, and when she gradually starts returning to her senses, she’s curled up in the Doctor’s arms, and he’s slowly stroking her hair. They’re both sweaty with come all over them, and it really shouldn’t feel romantic, but it kind of does.

   “We should do that again sometime,” Clara mumbles, fiddling with the blindfold where it’s lying next to her on the bed.

   “So you enjoyed it, then?”

   “A lot more than I expected to,” she admits.

   “And you’re sure you’re okay?” the Doctor asks her, kissing her neck softly.

   She nods. “I think so. Although tying me up for that long was pretty unnecessary. I was sexually frustrated enough after half the time.”

   “I noticed,” the Doctor says with a low laugh.

   She glances down at herself. “I need a shower. You want to join me? I don’t mean that in a sexual way, I just ... I’d like it. I like you.”

   “Sure,” he says, a smile on his lips. “And I like you, too, Clara Oswald.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)))
> 
> (Also, the version of Mel featured in this story is obviously pretty different from the one in the show. I’ve just always liked the idea of an “evil genius” version of her.)

The next weeks pass by in a blur. Clara edits her novel in between her lessons and during her lunch breaks, and spends most of her nights at the Doctor’s flat. When she sends Mel the draft of the novel, she can hear her heart pounding in her ears, but she knows that she can’t put it off any longer than she already has. Afterwards, she asks the Doctor to fuck her so that she’ll forget about it for a while, and he does, leaving love bites all over her neck and a dull ache in her heart.

   She gets used to waking up next to him. She sits on his desk while he writes, bothering him with questions until he warns her about what he’s going to do with her if she doesn’t leave, his tone amused. She usually continues teasing him just to find out if he’s going to keep his promises. He usually does. He buys her expensive lingerie, and she doesn’t protest. She spends most of her time in various states of undress, anyway, so she might as well look good doing it. He turns out to be an absolutely amazing cook, and it’s a welcome change to the microwave meals that she’s used to. He doesn’t eat in front of her, but disappears into his study during the meals. She chooses to believe him when he promises her that he’s eating, though, because what else is there to do?

   They’re slowly learning how to talk to each other. They discuss art, music, literature. He loves punk rock, she mostly listens to pop, and every time either of them plays music in the flat, they end up making grimaces at each other. Their tastes are more compatible when it comes to literature, and they’re soon both familiar with each other’s favourite novels. He tells her about places he’s visited. She tells him about her students. Just the fact that they can hold a conversation without resorting to snapping at each other or necessarily ending up fucking feels like an improvement.

   They do fuck a lot, though. In his bedroom, in his study, on the kitchen island, in his bathtub, against his washing machine, against his grand piano, in his library, and once, on his balcony, which in hindsight probably wasn’t that good of an idea. Clara lets him be in charge most of the time, enjoying it far more than she ever admits to him out loud, even when she’s in the middle of threatening to murder him if he doesn’t let her come. He loves teasing her far too much, and it’s excruciating, but then again, it usually results in mind-blowing orgasms, so, well, she’ll take it.

   When she gets a mail from Melanie telling her to come to her office for a meeting, she stops breathing for a second. She doesn’t tell the Doctor about it, too scared of both rejection _and_ the alternative. And then she’s standing in the lift on the way up to the publisher’s offices, her legs trembling.

   Melanie’s wearing her signature smile on her lips when she greets Clara, and Clara desperately wants to believe that that means something.

   “So,” Melanie begins when they’ve sat down in her office with a cup of coffee each, “we’ve read your novel.”

   “I got that impression, yeah,” Clara mumbles, hiding her face behind her coffee cup.

   “It’s better than your first one.”

   Clara’s tone’s hesitant when she opens her mouth to reply to Melanie’s comment. “Thank you ...?”

   “No need to sound so scared,” Melanie tells her, the smile back on her lips. “I want to publish it.”

   “Really?” Clara breathes.

  “I’ll send your agent the contract, and give you some time to think it over. I think we have something that we need to discuss how we’re going to handle, though, and I’m sure you know what I’m talking about.”

   Clara’s initial relief is replaced by a much more terrifying feeling. “Maybe.”

   “It’s inspired by the Doctor, isn’t it?”

   “Might be,” Clara admits, nervously tracing the rim of the cup with a fingertip.

   “We need to play this to our advantage,” Melanie says. “We can’t state that it’s about him directly, of course, but some vague questions about the subject in interviews in a few major newspapers, and you might just have a bestseller on your hands.”

   Clara shakes her head. “No. I’m not ... I’m not doing that to him. The manuscript isn’t about _him_ , anyway. It’s about the idea of him.”

   “And that’s an idea that he personally benefits from. Do you really think he’s sold as many books as he has just because of how good they are?”

   “They are good,” Clara protests. “They’re fu ... they’re brilliant.”

   “They are,” Melanie agrees, “but nobody reaches that level of success without an image that appeals to people, and trust me when I say that he wouldn’t be where he is now if it wasn’t for his publicists and the job they’ve done with preserving his image.”

   Clara laughs, but the sound is bitter. “The tortured hero? The womaniser?”

   “The literary genius,” Melanie adds.

   “He’s a fucking _human_ ,” Clara says, “and there’s nothing beautiful about being broken.”

   “Are you talking about him,” Melanie says, “or about yourself?”

   “I’m talking about that I’m not going to let you use my novel for the purpose of spreading more rumours about him.”

   “Well,” Melanie says after a couple of awkward seconds of silence, “I’m disappointed, but it’s your career, after all, so if you want to remain unknown and continue supporting yourself as a teacher for the rest of your life, fine, go on.”

   A cruel smile spreads over Clara’s lips. “If that’s my alternative, then yes, that’s my choice.”

   “We’ll still publish your novel,” Melanie says, “because I truly believe that your writing is outstanding, but I want you to put serious thought into considering my suggestion. We could get you interviews in The Telegraph, The Guardian ...”

   “You don’t need to try to convince me,” Clara says, “because I’m not interested.”

   “In that or in us publishing the novel?”

   Clara draws a shaky breath. “I don’t know.”

   “Listen,” Melanie says, “read the contract and get back to me in a week, yeah?”

   “Yeah,” Clara echoes, her voice lacking enthusiasm.

 

 

When Clara returns to the Doctor’s flat that evening, he’s lying on the sofa with his glasses on his nose and a book in his hands, and she sinks down next to him, curling up against his side.

   “How was your day?” he asks her, kissing her on the top of her head.

   “Terrible,” she mumbles. “The worst.”

   “Care to elaborate?”

   She shakes her head, tracing a finger along the waistline of his jeans. “I’d really rather not talk about it.”

   “Can I ask you something, then?” he says, sounding composed, but she can feel him shiver underneath her.

   “Depends on what it’s about, I guess.”

   “I know you told me that I wasn’t allowed to take you to Rome,” he says, “but I’m going to Los Angeles this weekend for some meetings about the film version of Death in Heaven. All very boring. It ... would be nicer if you were there with me.” She opens her mouth, but he places a fingertip on her lips before she’s said anything. “The hotel I’m going to be staying at is exquisite, and I really think you’d love the city. The only thing you’d have to do is accompany me to a dinner with the producer and the screenwriter of the movie.”

   “I’d love to,” Clara says, pulling up his t-shirt to stroke her tongue over his rib bones.

   “But ...?”

   She looks up at him, a smile on her lips. “But nothing.”

   He flips her around so that he’s on top, letting the book fall to the floor, and soon, both of them are gasping for air, and nothing matters to Clara anymore.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s never mentioned in the text, but Clara and the Doctor are supposed to be staying at the hotel Montage Beverly Hills. And by the way, I don’t think I ever mentioned which seaside town they visited earlier in the fic, but it was Folkestone, in case anyone’s interested in that kind of trivia.
> 
> (Also, the nod to The Confessions of Dorian Gray in this chapter is deliberate. I absolutely love the series.)

Clara gets the contract the day before she’s leaving for Los Angeles with the Doctor. She skims through it, shivering when her gaze falls upon the value of the advance. It’s over five times higher than the one she received for her first novel. Still not _that_ high, but high enough that she’d be able to take half a year off from work if she were to receive the money, even after her agent’s gotten her share of it. She tells herself that she’s never written for the money, but she can’t deny that it would come in handy.

   And then she’s sitting on a plane with the Doctor, the unsigned contract in her purse. She’s going to Los Angeles, she’s got the kind of book deal she’s always dreamed about, she’s sitting next to _the Doctor_ , and she should be over the moon, but the anxiety building up inside of her chest is making it difficult for her to focus on any of that.

   “Nervous about flying?” he asks her, reaching for her hand to interlace his fingers with hers. “I could order us some drinks, if you want to. After all, they’re free. Perks of flying first class.”

   “So that you’ll be both jetlagged _and_ hung over when it’s time for your meetings tomorrow?”

   “Don’t worry, I can handle my alcohol.”

   She raises an eyebrow. “Like the time you ended up sleeping with me?”

   A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “Wasn’t the worst mistake of my life, was it?”

   “Go on,” she says after a second of hesitation, because she has a feeling of that she won’t get through the plane ride sober. “Order me a rum and coke. No, wait, make that two.”

   “You’ll still have to be able to walk through the airport, dear.”

   She rolls her eyes at him. “It’s ten hours until then, and anyway, two drinks will only make me tipsy.”

   “Tipsy enough to order six more,” he says, his tone teasing.

   “You were the one who suggested it,” she says, waving at an air hostess with a name tag that reads Tegan. “Could I have two rum and cokes, please? With ice.”

   “And a neat whisky,” the Doctor adds.

   “Of course,” the air hostess tells them with a false smile glued on her lips.

   “So, this film,” Clara says when they’ve gotten their drinks. “Are they casting people for it yet?”

   The Doctor gives her an amused look. “Why, you’re not an actress, are you?”

   “Just making small talk.”

   “I don’t know,” he admits, sipping his whisky. “Apparently they’re considering actresses for the main character right now, but I’ve only heard some names mentioned in passing.”

   “Are you excited?” she asks him.

   “Well,” he says, “I’m not _not_ excited, but honestly, I’m more excited about the fact that you’re here with me than about any of that. I didn’t think you’d turn up at the airport right up until the moment you actually did.”

   His words sound almost like a confession, and all Clara knows is that she needs more alcohol in her bloodstream, so she empties the first glass in two gulps, ignoring the way it makes her throat burn. “Apparently I did, yeah.”

   “Are you okay?” he asks her, his gaze focused on her. “You’re not regretting this, are you?”

   “It’s just the flying,” she says, using his excuse. She’s only been in a plane once before, so she probably should feel at least a little concerned about that, but to be honest, it’s the least of her worries.

   “You know,” the Doctor says, “if you would happen to want to read the first draft of my next novel in order to distract yourself from it, I’ve got my laptop with me.”

   Clara turns around to face him. “Really?”

   “I can’t promise you that you’ll like it,” he says, “and there are some side plots that I know I’ll have to rewrite, but yeah, I’m serious. As long as you promise me not to post any spoilers on the internet.”

   “I’d love to read it,” she says, before biting her lip. “Not with you sitting right here next to me, though. It would just feel too weird.”

   “Then I guess we’ll have to find some other way to entertain ourselves during the ten hours we’re stuck at this plane.”

   “I’m not having sex with you in a toilet on an aeroplane.”

   “Your loss,” he tells her with an infuriating wink.

   She buries her face in her hands. “God.”

   “Let’s play a game,” he says. “Quote a line from a novel and if I know the novel, you’ll drink. If I don’t, I’ll drink.”

   “Are you planning to get us drunk or kill us both?”

   “And here I thought you were the one who’s studied literature.”

   “Fine,” she says. “It’s on.”

 

 

As Clara gets more intoxicated, it becomes more and more difficult for her to remember any quotes at all, and when she accidentally quotes one of the Doctor’s first published novels, her laughs are beginning to gain the two of them dirty looks from the people around them. Then she can’t remember how to pronounce the name of one of the characters from Harry Potter, and after that, she gives up.

   “Can I ask you something?” she asks the Doctor, leaning her head against his shoulder.

   “Clara, Clara, always asking questions,” he mumbles. “I should rename you the-asking-questions-one.”

   “Don’t,” she says. “I like the way you pronounce my name too much.”

   “Okay.” He turns his face towards hers, letting his gaze wander from her lips up to her eyes. “So what do you want to know, this time?”

   “Why _me_?” she asks him. “That night, why did you choose to spend it with me?”

   “Oh, you know what I say about reasons.”

   “What?”

   “I don’t have one.”

   She shakes her head. “People always have reasons.”

   “Yes,” he admits after a short silence. “Yes, I suppose they do.”

   “So why?”

   He strokes a fingertip over her wrist. “Because you’re clever, and witty, and devastatingly sexy, and ... other words.”

   “Right.”

   “Why did _you_ choose to spend that night with me?”

   Even in her drunken state, she realises that she can’t tell him the truth, that she can’t follow up his answer with “because I was drunk” or “because I’ve admired you for years and just meeting you was surreal and I couldn’t quite believe that you actually were interested in anything I had to say”.

   “Well,” she finally settles on, tilting her head up to kiss him on the cheek, “I’m happy I did.”

  

 

When their plane reaches Los Angeles, it’s evening and beginning to get dark outside. Clara hangs on to one of the Doctor’s arms as they find their way through the airport, and then they’re sitting in a taxi, the Doctor checking his phone while Clara’s staring out through the window. There are occasional palm trees on the sides of the highway, and the city seems to glitter in the darkness. Clara thinks about taking a picture to upload to twitter, but at the same time, she can’t help but want to keep it all a secret from the world for a little longer, so she doesn’t touch her phone.

   Clara expected the hotel to be located in a skyscraper or some other modern type of building, but instead, they arrive at an old-fashioned stone building that looks like it should belong in a movie, with an accompanying garden and majestic palm trees at the entrance.

   “Looks expensive,” Clara says when the Doctor has tipped the taxi driver and checked in at the hotel. They’re being led through a hallway furnished in white colours and dark brown wood, with plants scattered along the walls. The person who’s showing them to their room is politely ignoring the scent of alcohol hanging in the air around Clara and the Doctor.

   The room takes Clara’s breath away for a second. Well, rooms. There’s a living room, a dining room and a bedroom. Plus a balcony, with a view over what Clara recognises as the Hollywood Hills. The Doctor seems completely unfazed by it all, and for the first time since their first dinner, Clara can’t help but feel like she doesn’t really belong in his world.

   She kicks off her shoes and sinks down onto one of the sofas, leaving her unpacked bags in the hallway of the suite. “Do you take this kind of stuff for granted?” she asks the Doctor, watching him as he hangs up his black coat on one of the hooks in the hallway. “The luxury?”

   He casts a glance at her over his shoulder. “What makes you think that?”

   “Well, you don’t seem to care about any of it.”

   “In a way, I suppose you’re right.”

   She raises an eyebrow. “Meaning?”

   “At some point you do stop caring about all the superficial, extravagant stuff,” he says. “I definitely don’t take it for granted, but ... it doesn’t matter whether I have it or not. God knows I’ve never been particularly happy _with_ it in my life.”

   “Way to sound fucking grateful.”

   The Doctor sits down next to Clara in the sofa, placing her feet in his lap.“Are you cross with me?”

   “I’m not,” she says, but something in her voice betrays her.

   “You are.”

   “It’s just that you’ve got the nerve not to care about the fact that you get to live this kind of life when there are people starving ...” she begins without thinking the words through, and when she realises what she’s just said, she sort of feels like throwing herself into a car accident.

   “Yeah,” he says, his posture tense.

   “I’m sorry ...”

   “Look,” he interrupts her, “we’re both tired, so let’s just go to sleep now.”

   She regards him for a couple of seconds before she nods, and then he’s kissing her toes, and she’s giggling against her will.

   “You don’t happen to have a toothbrush?” he asks her. “I completely forgot to bring mine, and I don’t want to kiss you tasting like this.”

   She leans over to press her lips against his, and the whisky may be lingering on his breath, and his chin may be covered in stubble, but the touch of his lips against hers is dizzying.

   “I’ve got one,” she mumbles in between their kisses, while she’s unbuttoning his shirt almost nonchalantly. “Check my purse.”

   “Will do,” he says, rising from the sofa, and she can almost feel the absence of the warmth of his body on her skin. She lets herself fall backwards onto the sofa, staring up at the ceiling, a smile spreading across her lips.

   Then the Doctor’s back, holding a familiar bunch of papers in a hand, and Clara’s heart stops.


	19. Chapter 19

“You didn’t tell me.”

   Clara can feel her hands tremble. “I got it yesterday. I haven’t ... I didn’t want to tell you about it before I’d made a decision about whether to sign it or not.”

   He sits down next to her on the sofa, and she sits up, pulling her legs up against her chest. “You’re hesitating?” he says. “Why?”

   She tries to think of an explanation that doesn’t require her to tell him the truth, but she comes up empty-handed. “I don’t know.”

   “Is there something in it that you feel like you need to negotiate?”

   She shakes her head. “No, it’s not that.”

   He regards her quietly for a few seconds. “I’m not sure if I understand.”

   “Have you ever been scared of ... hurting someone with something you’ve written?” she asks him, looking down on her knees.

   He shrugs. “It would be more strange if I hadn’t, wouldn’t it?”

   “And what do you do?”

   “Write it anyway.”

   She bites her lip. “I’m just scared of losing ... this person.”

   “Sometimes people forgive you,” he says. “Sometimes they don’t. It’s just a risk you have to take.”

   “I’m not sure if I want to,” she says, closing the distance between the two of them to lean her head against his chest. He places his arms around her, holding her tightly, and there’s something about it that makes her feel achingly _at home_ even though she’s on the other side of the world. “Take that risk.”

   “I can’t tell you what to do,” he says. “You need to follow your own instincts, but I think, at its core, the whole act of writing is about being brave.”

   “Yeah,” she mumbles, tilting her head up to brush her lips against his. It’s a slow and lazy kiss and it kind of makes Clara’s neck hurt, but at the same time, there’s a strange intensity to it, and when they part, the absence of his skin against hers leaves an empty feeling in between her rib bones. “Sleep,” she says, nodding towards the bedroom in the suite.

   “Sleep,” he agrees, reaching for the toothbrush he’s placed on the table in front of the sofa.

 

 

The next morning, the Doctor orders room service, and then Clara eats breakfast in bed while he sips on a cup of coffee. Scrambled eggs, toast with orange jam, and pancakes with strawberries, blueberries and maple syrup. It’s all delicious, and she manages to convince him to try a couple of strawberries, but she’s realised that she can’t do more than that, can’t force him to eat no matter how badly she wishes she could.

   Then he leaves for a day full of meetings, and she’s all alone in a foreign city. They’re supposed to meet at the hotel an hour before the dinner with the producer and screenwriter, but until then, her schedule is glaringly empty.

   She ends up walking around in Beverly Hills without a clear goal in her mind, dropping into small shops and taking in the atmosphere. She thinks about the novel. She thinks about the Doctor’s advice. She thinks about him. She thinks about sex, and love, and the difference. She thinks about games you’re destined to lose.

   She buys new lingerie in the same colour as candy floss, lacy and seductive with garters and stockings. When the Doctor returns from his meetings, she sucks him off as he sits on the sofa table, ignoring his comments about how they’re going to be late. He tells her to expect him to take revenge on her, and she tells him that she’s looking forward to it.

   “So, how was your day?” he asks her when they’ve finally sat down in the backseat of the car they’re taking to the restaurant. He’s dressed in a fancy black suit with a bowtie. She’s wearing a dress inspired by the flapper era.

   “Long,” she says, leaning her head against his shoulder, breathing in the scent of his cologne.

   “See anything interesting?”

   She shrugs, casting a glance out through the car window. “It’s very pretty here.”

   A smile tugs at a corner of the Doctor’s mouth. “Is, yeah.”

   She rolls her eyes at him, but she’s smiling, too. “Don’t look at me as you say that, it’s too cliché.”

   He lowers his voice, and just the way she can feel his breaths against her ear as he continues in a whisper is more arousing than she’d like to admit. “Bet you won’t be complaining tonight when I cuff you to the bed and fuck you until you cry.”

   “Fuck off,” she tells him, receiving a grin in reply, and that’s how the evening continues. At every opportunity he gets, he tells her about what he’s going to do to her, always in low and seductive whispers. By the time their meals arrive she’s already excruciatingly wet, not doing a very good job of pretending that everything’s fine in front of the producer and the screenwriter.

   “I’m sorry,” she tells them while they’re waiting for their dessert, rising from her seat, “I need to go to the toilet.”

   “I think I’ll join you,” the Doctor, that fucking bastard, says. “Was just thinking about whether it would be impolite to leave the table.”

   She nudges him in the side. “Thanks for implying I lack manners.”

   “Not my intention, not my intention.”

   “Go on, it’s perfectly fine,” the producer says, a smile on her lips. “This really isn’t _that_ formal, after all.”

   And that’s how Clara ends up pressed against a bathroom wall with one of the Doctor’s hands between her legs, gently stroking her over the fabric of her underwear. “It’s almost funny, how turned on you are.”

   She shakes her head. “I fucking hate you.”

   “No, you don’t,” he says, slipping a finger underneath her knickers.

   “No, I don’t,” she agrees, her voice weak.

   “I won’t let you come, you know,” he says. “Not yet.”

   “I know.”

   “I’m going to let you suffer through the rest of the dinner, so wet that you can’t focus on anything else.”

   She clenches her teeth, shivering as his finger hit the exact spot where she wants it. Her tone is dripping with sarcasm when she opens her mouth again. “Such a gentleman.”

   A cruel smile spreads across his lips. “Aren’t I?”

   “I made my decision earlier today, by the way,” she tells him, and then she has to lean her head back against the wall, biting one of her hands to keep herself from moaning out loud.

   The Doctor looks adorably confused. “I’m not sure if I should know what you’re talking about.”

   She places one of her hands over his, keeping his fingers right where they are, even though he’s stopped moving them. “The novel.”

   “So, do we have something to celebrate?”

   “Might have.”

   “Trying to be mysterious, are you?”

   “Got to keep you interested somehow, haven’t I?”

   “Trust me,” he says, “I won’t lose interest in you that easily.”

   “I’m going to sign it,” she says, and somehow, those words make her feel as if a weight’s been lifted off her chest, even though they probably should make her even more anxious. “The contract.”

   “I’m proud of you,” he says, sounding touchingly sincere, considering the situation.

   “Proud enough to let me come?” she asks, half teasing him, half serious.

   He removes his hand and kisses her on the top of her head. “In your dreams, Oswald.”

   She grimaces. “It was worth a try.”

   “Let’s get back, now, shall we?” he says, turning around to wash his hands. “I think there’s a soufflé waiting for you out there.”

   “Yeah,” she says with a sigh of resignation, still leaning her back against the wall, unable to move just yet. “Looking forward to that.”


	20. Chapter 20

The rest of the weekend passes by in a blur, and then they’re on a plane back home, and Clara has to face reality again. The next few weeks are a haze of exams and novel edits, and while she spends most of her nights with the Doctor, she feels like he’s always just out of reach. They tease each other endlessly, and it’s half light-hearted, half life and death, but never _enough_.

   She can’t quite put her finger on what exactly she wants from him. She’s banned the word “love” from her consciousness, forbidden herself from even thinking about it, because she knows that the moment when she does, is the moment when she will be totally and completely fucked.

   Then the school year’s over, and she kind of sort of unofficially moves into his flat. Her things are everywhere there already, her toiletries in the shelves of the bathroom, her books lying on the floor next to his bed, her clothes strewn across his living room. In some ways it all feels very domestic, but at the same time, she doubts anything about their relationship ever could be. It’s all too complicated, too messy, too fragile.

   “So, how are things going?” Amy asks her. They’re meeting at a coffee shop to catch up with each other, and it’s a welcome break from sitting hunched over in front of a laptop, which is how Clara’s been spending several days while the Doctor’s away for a book fair. She sent in the final draft of the novel a short time ago, and since then, she’s been trying to start a new novel. It’s not going too well, but she keeps reminding herself of that every sentence is better than nothing.

   “Things,” Clara echoes, absentmindedly stroking a fingertip over the rim of her cup before she turns her gaze up towards Amy. “Yeah, that’s the question, isn’t it?”

   “I’ve heard you’re still seeing the Doctor.”

   “Suppose so.”

   Amy raises an eyebrow. “You don’t sound too sure.”

   “It’s just ...” Clara begins, and then slowly shakes her head. “I don’t know. This novel. I’m scared of what he’ll think of me after he’s read it.”

   “Have you talked to him about it?” Amy asks her, taking a sip from her coffee cup.

   “I’ve ... sort of tried,” Clara says, but truth to be told, she hasn’t brought it up since Los Angeles. She supposes she’s living in denial, pretending that everything is fine until he finds out about it and she has to deal with the aftermath.

   “So what are you planning to do, let him find out about that it’s about him by seeing the front pages of tabloids? By hearing people gossiping about it? I’m sorry, but that sounds like the worst plan ever.”

   “A few months ago you didn’t even want me to talk to him, and now it seems like you are trying to protect our relationship.”

   “All I’ve ever wanted is for you not to get hurt,” Amy says. “And I never thought I would say this, but ... I think you’re good for him. I think you’re both good for each other.”

   Clara looks down at her hands. “I’m not so sure.”

   “Trust me, I’ve known him for eight years and I’ve never seen him like this. I might not know the exact details concerning your relationship, but I know he cares deeply about you. And I think you care deeply about him, too, whether you’d like to admit it or not.”

   “I do care about him,” Clara says. “Of course I do.”

   “Then take my advice,” Amy says. “Tell him before he finds out from someone else.”

 

 

The Doctor returns that evening. Clara hears the front door open and close, and then she feels him placing his arms around her where she sits in front of her computer. She can hear the smile on his lips when he opens his mouth, his face half-buried against her hair. “Long time, no see.”

   “Missed me, have you?” she asks, a corner of her mouth curved upwards.

   “Always,” he replies. “How’s the writing going?”

   “Well, I’ve written about fifteen pages,” she says, glancing at the computer screen, “so it’s a start.” The new novel is science fiction, completely different from her previous ones, but both Amy and Melanie approved of the synopsis.

   “Maybe I should leave you alone so you can continue,” the Doctor says, still with his arms around Clara.

   “Don’t,” she says.

   “Okay.”

  

 

 “Can I say something?” Clara asks him later that evening when they’re lying next to each other in the bed. His hair’s messy, his cheeks still rosy, and he’s achingly beautiful.

   “Of course,” he says, but there’s a slight hesitation to his tone.

   “When we first met, I had this idea of who you were in my head,” she says. “Amy’s told me a lot about you throughout the years. I’ve heard rumours. You aren’t just famous for your novels, you know?”

   “I thought we’d been through this.”

   “No, we haven’t,” Clara says, without knowing from where she gets the courage to utter the words. “It’s been mentioned between the two of us, but we’ve never discussed it.”

   “Go on,” he says.

   “The women ...” Clara begins tentatively.

   “I’ve slept with a lot of people, yes,” the Doctor says, apparently aware of where the conversation is heading. “Usually without having any feelings for them. I’ve manipulated people, I’ve lied to them, I’ve used them for my own purposes. I’m not a good person. There. Now that’s out in the open.”

   “You don’t have to tell me about it unless you want to,” Clara says, sensing the vulnerability in his voice.

   “I’m never going to want to,” he says, “but I think I need to. Just promise me you’ll listen, yeah? You don’t need to understand, and you can choose to run away, afterwards, if you want to. But listen.”

   Clara’s hands are trembling, but she nods. “Yeah.”

   “Before River left Romana with me, I was successful as an author, but never on _that_ level of success. I could afford writing full-time and still have money left over at the end of most months, but none of my readers recognised my face, and while the film rights to Deep Breath had been sold and there was a screenwriter attached to the project, it wasn’t making any progress. Then Time Heist was published.”

   Clara fights the urge to tell him about how Time Heist was the novel that made her fall in love with his works, about how she found it in her parents’ bookshelf back when she was twelve years old and about how it changed her entire life.

   “Twelve days after it was published,” the Doctor says, “I was on a plane on my way to New York for several days full of meetings with publishers and producers and all kinds of people that my agent told me I should meet. Romana stayed with a friend of mine, Sarah Jane, and it was the first time I’d been away from her for more than a day. On the plane back home to London, I had no idea of what had just happened, but what I had realised, somewhere along the way, was that everyone was head over heels in love with the novel, and everyone wanted to take part of its success. Am I boring you yet?”

   “You couldn’t bore me even if you tried,” Clara admits to him.

   He laughs, but the sound is cold and devoid of any humour. “Right. So, I had been working on my next novel, The Caretaker, for almost half a year, but I couldn’t make the plot work, no matter how hard I tried. It didn’t help that I was constantly distracted by Romana and couldn’t just sit down and write for days and forget all about reality, like I used to do before her. Don’t get me wrong, I loved her more than anything, but having children is tough, no matter how much you care about them.”

   Clara makes a humming sound.

   “When I submitted the novel to my publisher, I knew it was terrible. Well, maybe terrible is a bit of an exaggeration, but it certainly wasn’t on the same level as Time Heist, or even on the same level as any of my other novels. They didn’t mind, and even rushed the edits of it, in order to be able to publish it at the same time as the movie version of Time Heist was released, so that more people would buy it. The ironic thing is that The Caretaker got the best reviews any work of mine has ever gotten, with a possible exception for Death in Heaven. Everyone claimed to love it, even though it was a pile of absolute rubbish.”

   Clara wants to protest, tell him that it really isn’t _that_ bad, but she swallows her words, because she gets what he’s saying.

   “So,” he says, “my road to self-destruction. It was all a gradual process. I was finding excuses as to why I was skipping meals. I was busy, I wasn’t hungry, I’d never had much of an appetite anyway. It’s easy to explain why I was stuck with the eating disorder for so long, easy to explain how you feel like you _need_ to keep track of how many calories you consume, easy to explain how addicted you become to both that false sense of control and to the feeling you get when you haven’t eaten for days. I’ve never felt anything like it except for when I’ve been high. As time went on, the rushes became fewer and far in between, as with any addiction, and for most of the time, I was suicidal, but I still couldn’t give it up. How I reached that point, though? I don’t even know if _I_ know the answer to that. So much was happening in my life, and I couldn’t control any of it, so I guess I turned to something I could control. At first it was unconscious, like I said, but then I started reading labels, weighing food, and ...”

   “Doctor,” Clara says, her voice barely more than a whisper.

   “I needed to distract myself from everything, so I started sleeping around, and since everything I wrote at the time was depressing as fuck, I ended up writing about the women’s lives, instead. When Romana was sixteen, I ended up in hospital, and since there was a high risk of that my heart would stop beating if I carried on for much longer, I was admitted to a treatment facility against my will. The only thing that kept me alive in there was my writing. Romana had given up on me several years ago, and already spent most of her time at Sarah Jane’s house. I didn’t have any friends, only acquaintances and admirers, and ...”

   Clara doesn’t even notice that he’s crying, at first. He doesn’t make any sounds, he barely trembles. Somehow, that makes him seem even more vulnerable, like he’ll break if she touches him.

   “I’m sorry,” she tells him, carefully stroking a fingertip across his cheek, feeling her heart shatter inside her chest. “I’m so, so fucking sorry.”


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally going to be longer, but I cut a side plot that honestly felt out of place in this chapter. Anyway. I would tell you that I hope you enjoy it, but "enjoy" might be the wrong word to use for this chapter.

Here’s a dangerous truth: sometimes, Clara instinctively thinks of the Doctor as her boyfriend, before hurriedly correcting herself. She might live at his flat, she might have sex with him and fall asleep in his arms every night, she might attend events together with him, she might have gotten used to strolling through the city with him by her side, but she isn’t his girlfriend, and he sure as hell isn’t her boyfriend. She knows that. She does. Sometimes it’s just that ... the lines between being lovers and being partners seem to blur together. It doesn’t exactly help that everybody else assumes that the two of them are in a relationship, or that it feels so ridiculous to explain what’s actually going on to people that both Clara and the Doctor have stopped and nowadays simply let them.

   As the release date of the novel approaches, and the whole of London is beginning to glitter with fairy lights and Christmas decorations, the anxiety in Clara’s chest grows more and more heavy. She does her best to avoid thinking about it all by burying herself in her work, both her work as a teacher and her work with her new novel, which she’s written over three-hundred pages of so far. She’s been having some problems with the physics of time travel, but after getting help from one of her friends from university who studied physics, she’s finally been able to sort that part out.

   One afternoon in November, she finds the Doctor standing outside of the staff room at the school with two cups of takeaway coffee in his hands and a grin on his face. He’s wearing glasses, his grey coat and a dark blue scarf, and his chin is covered in a light layer of stubble. He’s agonizingly fucking beautiful, and Clara can’t deal with it, not when she knows that he most likely won’t want to speak to her in three weeks time.

   “I thought we’d take a walk,” he says, holding out the cups of coffee in her direction. “Enjoy London in the winter. I even bought gingerbread lattes.”

   Clara reaches up on her tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek. “I do love gingerbread lattes.”

   His smile grows wider. “I know.”

   She tilts her head to the side. “Why, you seem excited.”

   “Just the Christmas spirit getting to me, I suppose.”

   She can’t help but smile. “Right, I’ll get my coat, shall I?”

 

 

“So, how’s your work going?” he asks her as they walk towards the more scenic streets of the part of the town that the school is located in, sipping on their coffee. “It seems to be taking up a lot of your time right now.”

   Clara cringes, but does her best not to let it show. “Yeah, the last few weeks before the holidays are always the most stressful.”

   “I saw an advert for your new novel earlier today,” the Doctor says. “They have this huge sign at Waterstones. The one at Piccadilly.”

   “Oh my god.”

   He fumbles for his phone. “Look, I took a picture.”

   Clara stares at it without really noticing what she’s seeing. “That’s ... amazing.”

   “You don’t sound too convinced of what you’re saying.”

   That’s the worst thing about getting to know someone better, that you can’t lie to them in the same way anymore, as they start being able to tell when you’re not being honest.

   “Um,” Clara says, casting a glance over her shoulder, mainly to avoid the Doctor’s gaze where it’s lingering on her, “there’s something I probably should’ve told you ages ago.”

   “Sounds alarming.”

   “Maybe,” she admits. “Probably. Either way, it’s something we should probably discuss in private.”

   “We could take a taxi back to my flat.”

   She shakes her head. Maybe it’s because she still lives in a state of telling herself that none of it will ever matter as long as she pretends it doesn’t. Maybe it’s because she desperately doesn’t want all of this to end just yet. “Let’s just ... walk around for a little while longer, okay?”

   The Doctor regards her intensely for several seconds before finally tearing his gaze away from her and nodding. “God, I’m really not too fond of these gingerbread lattes.”

   “Too much sugar?” Clara guesses, thankful for how swiftly he’s changed the topic of conversation.

   He grimaces. “Far too much sugar. It doesn’t even taste like coffee, does it?”

   “It’s the kind of coffee drink that people who don’t like coffee order to pretend that they do.”

   The Doctor looks adorably confused. “Who on earth doesn’t like coffee?”

   “I don’t know, I’ve merely heard rumours about the poor fuckers,” Clara says with a fragile smile, “but I’m pretty sure they don’t work within the book industry.”

 

 

When they return to the Doctor’s flat, Clara’s heart is beating so hard in her chest that she swears he must be able to hear it.

   She crosses the floor of the kitchen to the drinks cabinet, grabbing a bottle of red wine and pouring each of them a glass. He shrugs, but doesn’t protest. She brings the bottle along with her to the living room, where they sink down onto the sofa. He places an arm around her and lets her lean her head against his side while she sips the wine, trying to gather enough courage to open her mouth.

   “It can’t be _that_ bad,” he says, but the worry in his voice is palpable.

   Clara has apparently emptied her glass without even really noticing and reaches for the bottle from the sofa table to fill it again. When she leans back towards the sofa again, she looks up at the Doctor, and strokes a fingertip across his cheek. “God, how did we even end up here?”

   “Some people say that your entire life is written in the stars from the moment you’re born,” the Doctor mumbles, before regaining a clarity in his eyes. “I think that’s probably bullshit.”

   Clara smiles, taking another sip of her wine. “Probably, yeah.”

   “It’s strange, though, how it was never meant to be more than a one-night stand, isn’t it?”

   “Very.”

   “So, what is it that you have on your mind?”

   She takes a trembling breath, looking down at her hands again. “It’s just ... the novel.”

   “What, you’re scared of that I won’t like it?”

   “Shut up.”

   “I’m not being sarcastic, I’m trying to understand you here.”

   “Well,” Clara says, “to clear things up, that’s not what’s bothering me.”

   The Doctor awkwardly pats one of her knees. “Okay.”

   She takes a gulp of wine to prepare herself for the next sentence before she utters it. “You might feel differently about me when you’ve read it.”

   “Clara, I sincerely doubt that’s going to happen.”

   “And I’m telling you that you shouldn’t say anything like that before you’ve read it because you probably will.”

   “Is that why you haven’t given me one of the advance copies?”

   She bites her lip. “Yeah.”

   “Anyway, you’re wrong,” the Doctor says. “My feelings for you won’t be affected by it. Do you really think I care for you so little?”

   “I don’t deserve someone like you.”

   “I’m terribly sorry, but I’m exactly what you deserve,” he says, placing a hand below her cheek, tilting her face up until their eyes meet.

   There’s something about it that makes something inside Clara break and she places the glass of wine on the floor to be able to cup his face with her hands and press her lips against his. The kiss is somehow both tender and desperate at once, but mainly, it’s just bittersweet.

   And then the Doctor whispers the words, those fucking three words, his mouth so close to hers that she can feel his breaths against her skin, and she knows that she can’t do this any longer.

   “I’m sorry,” she tells him, pulling her head back. “I’m so, so sorry.”

   “I’m not exactly sure about what you’re apologising for.”

   “Because ...” she begins, making a half-hearted attempt at fighting the tears that are burning behind her eyelids, but she soon gives up and just lets them fall instead. “Fuck.”

   The Doctor holds her as she cries without asking her about why, and she’s pretty sure it’s because deep down, he knows. “Oh, Clara.”

   “I need to leave,” she says, wiping tears away with a hand. “As soon as I’ve stopped crying.”

   His voice is almost as fragile as hers when he opens his mouth again, but he’s clearly making an effort to remain as composed as possible. “So this is you, breaking up with me.”

   “I can hardly break up with you, can I, when we’ve never been a couple?”

   “Can you look me in the eyes and tell me that this hasn’t meant as much as if we had been, though?”

   She shakes her head, blinking away new tears. “That’s the problem.”

   He takes a shaking breath. “Can you tell me the truth about one thing before?”

   “I can try.”

   “ _Why_ are you leaving me?”

_Because I’m scared of that if I let myself believe your words, I will have to face the fact that I love you too, and because I’m scared out of my fucking mind of what that could lead to._

   “Because you deserve someone so, so much better.”

   “What if I don’t want someone else?” the Doctor says, and there’s something so helpless in his voice that Clara desperately wants to kiss him again and tell him that everything will be all right. “What if I just want you?”

   Instead she hugs him one last time, holding him for a little longer than she should. “John, I can’t.”

   And so she gets up to leave the flat, and his universe, behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be continued.


	22. Chapter 22

It’s the release date of the novel and Clara’s having a party. Well, her publisher is, but she’s the reason for the celebration, and everyone she knows is on the guest list. She’s wearing a black dress with red heels and matching lipstick, looking invulnerable and ready to kill a man. She’s been doing interviews all day, repeating the same sentences over and over again in different combinations, and while it’s been terribly boring, it’s helped to keep her distracted from the fact that _he_ ’s going to be at the party.

   She hasn’t seen him in three weeks. It’s the longest time they’ve gone without speaking since the first night they spent together. She’s had her phone in her hand several times, hovering with her fingertip over his number, but so far she’s always been able to stop herself.

   She’s just not sure about how the fuck she will handle being in the same room as him, having to smile and pretend that everything’s fine when nothing has felt fine for, well, three weeks. Just the thought makes her feel nauseous.

   “You ready?”

   Clara looks up from the copy of the novel that she’s been flicking through without actually seeing any of the text on its pages. Amy’s standing next to the sofa with two glasses of red wine in her hands, and she places one of them in front of Clara.

   “I thought it could help with the nerves.”

   “Could, yeah,” Clara admits with a weak smile, taking a sip from the glass. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

   “Listen,” Amy says, sinking down onto the armrest of the sofa, “I don’t know what’s been going on between you and the Doctor during the past few weeks, but I know you can’t avoid each other forever.”

   Clara shrugs. “Sounds like a good idea to me.”

   “Has he read the novel yet?” Amy asks her, sipping her own wine.

   “Not unless you’ve given him a copy of it.”

   “Have you at the very least told him about how heavily inspired by him it is?”

   “Not really, no.”

   “So that isn’t why you two haven’t been speaking for weeks?”

   Clara looks down at her hands, ignoring the way her heart’s racing in her chest. “ _Please_ could we change the subject?”

   Amy raises an eyebrow. “Now I’m genuinely curious.”

   “He told me that he loved me,” Clara says, fumbling with the book in her hands.

   “And you told him that you love him very much too.”

   Clara flinches.

   “Do you?” Amy asks her after several seconds of silence have passed, her gaze focused on Clara.

   “No,” Clara instinctively replies, and then hesitates. “Yes. Maybe. I don’t know. That’s not the point, though.”

   “No?”

   “He told me he _loved_ me.”

   “That’s what people in relationships tend to do,” Amy says.

   “Exactly,” Clara says. “We were never in a relationship, we just fucked. I was making an actual effort to avoid getting my heart broken. And then he fucking tells me that he loves me.”

   “Oh, honey,” Amy says, emptying her glass. “I’m going to give you some brutally honest advice, and obviously I would never tell you that you have to follow it, but take it into consideration, yeah?”

   Clara tilts her head to the side.

   “Maybe,” Amy says, “just maybe, the possibility of love is worth taking a risk for.”

 

 

He’s handsome as ever, wearing a black shirt with white polka dots under his black coat. Clara’s attention is stolen by the woman by his side, though. She’s around his age, with dark hair in a messy bun on her head and piercingly blue eyes, clinging to his arm with a smile on her lips. Clara forces herself to avoid looking at them while she talks about the novel and reads a passage from it, but then it’s time for the signing and before she’s been able to prepare herself for it, he’s standing right in front of her with a copy of the novel in his hands.

   “Care to sign this?” he asks her with the most exasperating nonchalance in his tone, placing the book on the table.

   _Fuck you_ , she thinks, but she’s a professional author, after all, so she reaches for her pen. “Whom should I make it out to?”

   He looks at her like he can’t quite believe her, and to be honest, she’s not entirely sure about why she’s acting the way she is, either. “The Doctor,” he says. “Just the Doctor.”

   She scribbles down “to the Doctor” and her own name in the book and then gives it back to him without another word.

   “Clara,” he says. It almost sounds like a plea, and it’s almost enough to make her break.

   She refuses to let him see her waver, though. Instead she meets his eyes with hers and nods towards the woman, who’s standing a few metres away, chatting to one of the editors from the publishing house. “She a close friend of yours?”

   He glances down at his feet with a grimace. “We’ve known each other for a long time.”

   “Do you sleep with her?”

   “Honestly,” he says, “I don’t think that’s any of your fucking business.”

   She feels a strange wave of regret wash over her. “I’m sorry.”

   “Yeah,” he says, placing the book under one of his arms before giving her the slightest nod. “See you around, I suppose.”

   “You’re not going to stay for the party?”

   “Is there any reason for me to?”

   _Yes_ , she wants to tell him. _Stay, and we’ll drink champagne, and then I’ll be brave enough to kiss you on the street outside, and then we’ll end up talking for hours in your flat, and then we’ll fuck as the night turns into morning outside, and everything will be okay._

   “I’m sorry,” she says instead, avoiding his gaze.

   “Yeah,” he says, and there’s a resignation in his tone. “Me, too.”

 

 

So, Clara does what anyone in her situation would do. She gets drunk. And then she cries in the bookshop’s very fancy bathroom. And tells two women who are sitting on the sofa in there to never, ever, ever sleep with a famous author.

   “Hey, aren’t _you_ the author here?” one of them asks her.

   She laughs bitterly. “I wouldn’t have written the novel if it wasn’t for him, you know. He was, like, my muse. God, he’d despise me if he heard me use that word about him. Not that it matters, now.”

   “He?” one of the women echoes.

   “The Doctor.”

   “Oh my god.”

   “Can I sit down there?” Clara asks them, eyeing the sofa through her drunken haze. “It looks very comfortable. The sofa.”

   “Go on,” one of the women tells her. “And do tell us more about how he inspired the novel.”

   Clara sinks down onto the sofa, making a humming sound to herself. “Now this _is_ a very comfortable sofa.”

   “Certainly.”

   “Well,” Clara continues, wiping her tears away with a hand, “me and him, our relationship was always complicated.”

   “Complicated in what way?”

   “Or not complicated at all,” Clara continues, staring at the white marble wall of the bathroom. “We slept together. Maybe that’s it. But, like, there was this game going on beneath the surface. We were sort of constantly battling for dominance.”

   “So how did it all end?” one of the women asks her, leaning forward with an elbow propped against one of her knees.

   “That’s a story for another time,” a familiar voice tells her from the door of the bathroom. “Clara, come with me.”

   Clara glances up at Amy. “Why, we’re having a perfectly nice time here.”

   “ _Clara_ ,” Amy repeats, and this time, her tone doesn’t allow any room for protests, so Clara reluctantly gets up from the sofa and hugs the two women goodbye before she follows Amy out through the door.

   “What is it?” Clara asks her when they’re outside. “Are you jealous?”

   “Why would I be ...” Amy begins, before shaking her head. “Never mind. Do you know who you were just talking to?”

   “No idea.”

   “Well, then I think I ought to tell you before you get a nasty surprise tomorrow morning when your face is all over the papers.”

   “No,” Clara whispers. “Not _journalists_. Please, please, please, no.”

   “I could lie to you,” Amy says, “tell you that everything’s going to be fine, but to be honest, I don’t really think there’s any point in that right now.”

   Clara breaks into tears again.

   “Get yourself together,” Amy tells her. “And don’t under any circumstances go near the champagne again tonight. We’re going to figure out a plan, you and I, okay? I’ll just call the Doctor first, prepare him for the storm that’s coming.”

   Clara shakes her head with a loud sob. “He’s probably shagging that woman right now.”

   “Doesn’t matter,” Amy says. “He might not be glad for the warning right now, but he’ll sure as hell be glad for it tomorrow morning when the articles don’t come as a surprise to him.”

   “Can’t we just tell the journalists to keep it a secret?” Clara begs her.

   “Sorry, darling, but you don’t have that influential publicists,” Amy tells her.

   Clara bites her lip. “No, but the Doctor does, doesn’t he?”

   “Possibly,” Amy says with a corner of her mouth curved upwards, and then reaches for the half full glass of champagne that Clara’s holding in one of her hands to empty it in a single gulp. “All right. Let’s deal with this situation.”


	23. Chapter 23

“Merry Christmas, Clara Oswald.”

   Clara knew he would be at the publisher’s annual Christmas dinner, obviously, but hearing his voice still feels surreal. He’s standing in the hallway, unbuttoning his red velvet coat. He’s avoiding her gaze, but there’s an amusement in his expression. She’s just not quite sure about how to interpret it.

   “Merry Christmas,” she replies as coolly as possible, taking off her own coat.

   “How are you doing?” he asks her, leaning against the wall next to him so that he’s facing her.

   She shrugs. “I’m fine.”

   “Fine?” he echoes. “That’s it?”

   “What would you like me to tell you?”

   “The truth, preferably.”

   _I haven’t been able to sleep since the release party. My flat feels bigger than yours ever did, as if the loneliness makes all the empty space between the walls in it expand. I miss the feeling of your skin against mine. I miss the feeling of you inside me. I miss the feeling of waking up in your arms and turning my head a little just to watch you in that vulnerable state halfway in between sleep and consciousness. I miss you, I miss you, I miss you._

“Fine, yeah,” she says. “You?”

   “I’m fine, too,” he says, and there’s a resignation to his tone, even as a corner of his mouth is curved upwards in a smile.

   Clara finds herself thinking about how much she hates endings.

 

 

They’re placed right in front of each other. Of course they are, seeing as Amy’s the one responsible for the seating chart. They fill their plates with turkey, roast potatoes and cranberry sauce from the buffet and then settle down at the table without saying a word to each other. They clink their glasses of mulled wine together when Melanie proposes a toast, but they avoid each other’s gazes. They exchange pleasantries with the people sitting next to them, laughing a little too loud at jokes that aren’t even funny, watching each other from the corners of their eyes.

   When they get up to get dessert, the Doctor tugs at one of the sleeves of Clara’s dress, and she’s so thankful for the break from the two of them ignoring each other that she doesn’t hesitate to follow him out of the dining room. They’re barely out of the room before they’re both reaching for each other with trembling hands. She reaches up on her tiptoes to place her arms around his neck and he kisses her as her back is pressed against the wall. There are a thousand reasons why they shouldn’t, but right there and right then, Clara can’t think of a single one that’s good enough to convince her to stop.

   They stumble into the toilets in the hallway while kissing each other desperately, hungrily, clinging to each other as if their lives depended on it. He’s pulling her dress over her head, and their breaths are getting sharper, echoing between the tones of the Christmas music from the dining room. He fucks her against the sink, so roughly that she’s vaguely aware of that it probably should hurt, but she’s lost in a state so blissful that pain is the last thing on her mind.

   Afterwards neither of them seems to be able to remember how to move. For minutes they just stand there, leaning against the counter, breathing heavily. Clara’s clothes are strewn across the floor, and the entire room smells of sex.

   Then Clara starts laughing, not entirely sure about why, but there’s something so absurd about the situation that it’s hard for her not to. It doesn’t take long for the Doctor to join in, even though his laughs are more hesitant.

   “So, you don’t hate me, then?” she’s finally brave enough to ask him, leaning down to pick up her knickers from the floor.

   “I could never hate you.”

   “You should,” she says.

   “I know,” he says, “but it doesn’t work that way, does it?”

   “No,” she admits, “maybe not.”

   “And it’s all given me a hell of a lot of publicity.”

   Clara can’t help but smile. “Because that was totally something you were in desperate need of.”

   “Totally,” he says, his tone completely serious, but there’s a glint in his eyes that tells her that her sarcasm isn’t lost on him.

   “I’m sorry,” she says, meeting his gaze for the first time during the evening. “I’m so, so sorry. Both for writing the novel in the first place and for getting so drunk during the release party that I caused the mess I did. Not to mention for expecting your publicists to handle the situation for me.”

   He shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it. I was the one who told them not to.”

   She stares at him, trying to make sense of his words, but failing. “Why not?”

   “I knew how much publicity it would give you.”

   “Right,” she says, taking a few absentminded steps around the room, “if, and I’m saying _if_ , this is going to work, you can’t make that kind of decisions for me. If I’m going to become famous for anything, it’s because of what a brilliant writer I am, not because of that I’m fucking you.”

   “You _are_ a brilliant writer,” the Doctor says. “This has just allowed people who otherwise wouldn’t have been aware of the existence of your novel to discover that.”

   “Don’t,” Clara says, placing a fingertip on his lips. “You know what I mean.”

   “Yes,” he admits after a short silence, his breaths ticking her skin. “I do.”

   “I’m scared fucking senseless right now,” Clara tells him, lowering her hand to place it on one of his hips instead, stroking his hip bone with her thumb.

   “Might not seem like it,” he says, “but I’m pretty fucking scared, too.”

   “So we’re on the same page, then.”

   “You know what I’ve missed the most about you?” he says, tangling his fingers into her hair. “Your smell. God, I could just stand here for hours and breathe it in.”

   “Or we could lie in your bed for hours,” Clara suggests with the hint of a smile on her lips. “More comfortable.”

   He tilts his head down as a smile spreads across his own lips. “Yeah, we could to that.”

   “Let’s.”


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here it is, the last chapter. Thank you all so much for reading, commenting, leaving kudos, yelling to me about this fic on twitter and encouraging me to finish it. This chapter wouldn't have been written if it weren't for you <3

**Eight months later**  
****

  

”Stop teasing me,” the Doctor tells Clara, moving her hands away from his hips. ”You don’t want me to end up going to the premiere like this, do you?”

   ”Personally I wouldn’t mind,” she tells him with a grin as she pulls her head back from his crotch, ”but I guess there are other people who would.” She leaves a trail of kisses across his abdomen, stopping when she reaches his collarbones. ”Their loss.”

   He kisses her swiftly on the lips before tearing himself away from her and beginning to look for his clothes on the floor of the hotel room. ”Where the hell are my pants?”

   ”Over there, I think,” Clara says with a gesture towards the television.

   The Doctor grabs the black piece of clothing to hold it up in the air. ”Nah, this is one of my socks.”

   Clara leans down to check the floor under the bed, cheering triumphantly when she finds the missing pants. ”Here you go.”

   ”I would thank you, but seeing as you’re the one responsible for it …”

   She tosses the other one of his socks right at his face in response.

   ”Thanks a lot.”

   ”You’re welcome.”

 

 

Against all odds, both of them manage to get dressed in time for when their limousine arrives. It takes them along the streets of Los Angeles to the theatre where the premiere of the film version of Death in Heaven is held.

   Since the Christmas party, the two of them have become quite the it couple. The attention has resulted in that Clara has been able to quit her day job to focus on her career as a writer, but also in that she’s had to get used to having no privacy whatsoever, as their readers seem to have deemed her and the Doctor public property. Well, no privacy whatsoever might be a slight exaggeration. Their sex life is still off limits for the press.

   She’s moved in with the Doctor and is now getting to wake up in his arms every morning. The sight of him among their sheets still makes her heart skip a beat. Somehow, she seems to find him more and more beautiful for every day that passes by.

   Their driver picks up Amy on the way to the theatre. Her eyelids are painted with different shades of black and she’s wearing a dress in the colour of amethysts that looks amazing as a contrast to her ginger locks.

   She greets them with a wide smile as she sinks down onto the seat next to Clara’s. ”How are my two favourite authors doing?”

   ”Could be worse,” the Doctor says, ”though I’d prefer to be at home right now.”

   ”With a book in his arms in front of the fireplace,” Clara says, nudging him in the side.

   He shrugs. ”What can I say, she knows me too well.”

   ”It’ll be over in a couple of hours,” Amy says. ”All you need to do is smile for the cameras, write some autographs and hold your speech.”

   ”Yeah,” he says with a grimace.

 

 

The premiere passes by without much ado. Clara and the Doctor have already seen the movie both in its rough cut and its final version, but Clara finds it entertaining to observe the audience’s reactions as they get to experience it all for the first time. Their laughs, their gasps of surprise and their tears.

   Soon enough they’re all heading towards the after party, which they’ve been promised will be spectacular. It’s held at a gallery in a skyscraper. The place is furnished in white and the view from the panoramic windows is magnificent. Everyone gets drinks from the bar and then clink their glasses against each other to celebrate their success. The Doctor smiles and exchanges polite phrases with the other guests, playing the role of the perfect celebrity. His discomfort is only noticeable in the moments when he glances at Clara across the room.

   ”You know, ever since you and the Doctor got into a relationship, both of you seem more content than I’ve ever seen you,” Amy says, sipping on a martini.

   Clara shrugs. ”I suppose being in love tends to have that effect on people.”

   ”You really do love him, don’t you?”

   ”He makes me feel like I understand the lyrics even in the most cliché love songs.”

   ”What is it like, being in a relationship with him?” Amy asks her with her gaze focused on the Doctor’s back on the other side of the room.

   Clara smiles, taking a sip of her own gin and tonic. ”Scary as hell.” Knowing that there’s a possibility of that he’ll fall out of love or that it all might not work out in the end is terrifying. The thought of losing him keeps Clara awake at night. But in the end, the only alternative would be for her to willingly end their relationship, and she’s definitely not prepared to lose him in that way, either.

   ”But it’s worth it?”

   ”Every single second,” Clara replies without hesitation.

 

 

Clara and the Doctor make up excuses to leave the party about an hour after midnight, even though people are only just starting to get drunk and they’ve finally started playing pop and r&b instead of monotonous jazz. Their limousine takes them through the glittering city, past neon signs and palm trees.

   ”We should go for a midnight swim,” Clara suggests as they reach the hotel. The pool in the hotel garden is bright turqouise and tempting in the moonlight.

   ”I’m wearing my best costume!” the Doctor protests.

   ”There’s a concept called skinny dipping.”

   ”Jesus, Clara.”

   ”Have you lost your sense of adventure?” she teases him, slowly backing towards the pool with her face turned towards him.

   ”Thought the sex we had in the plane on the way here should have proven you wrong on that point.”

   ”True,” she has to admit with a reminiscing smile, before turning around and pulling down the zipper on the back of her dress. ”Come on. It’ll be fun.”

   The Doctor sighs, but lets his coat fall to the ground and starts unbuttoning his shirt. 

   ”Remember the first time we met?” Clara says, standing right in front of the pool in her underwear.

   He hums in response. ”Feels like a lifetime ago.”

   ”I hated myself so much for letting you charm me into ending up in bed with you.”

   ”You were the one who seduced me that night, love,” the Doctor says, leaning down to take off his shoes. ”I was merely being polite.”

   ”You were talking about the portrayal of sex in literature from the nineteenth century!”

   ”I wrote my Master’s dissertation on that topic!”

   ”You touched my breasts!”

   ”I was just trying to wipe away the alcohol you spilled all over your dress!”

   Clara shakes her head. ”I sure as hell wasn’t the one who seduced you that night.”

   ”Just accept the fact that you were,” he tells her with a crooked smile. 

   ”Oh, shut up,” she tells him, ”in any case I was far too drunk to be able to remember what I did and didn’t do.”

   ”So let me get this straight,” he says, ”you’re trying to tell me that I’m wrong even though you can’t remember what happened that night?”

   She hides her smile behind one of her arms. ”Maybe?”

   ”Impossible, that’s what you are.”

   ”I know.”

   He regards her for a moment before he closes the distance between the two of them to shove her into the pool.

   As soon as she’s stopped screaming she makes an attempt at getting revenge on him by splashing water all over him. ”I hate you.”

   ”No, you don’t,” he tells her before he dives after her into the pool. When he reaches the surface he’s got a smile on his lips again. ”You love me very, very much.”

   ”True,” Clara admits, placing her arms around his neck.

   ”Do you think there are any rules against sex in hotel pools?” the Doctor asks her, his voice slightly breathless.

   ”Has that ever stopped us before?”

   ”Fair enough.”

   And with those words, the Doctor kisses Clara.


End file.
